


The Fall of Dragons

by KingOfWinter



Series: The White Wolf Rises. [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: As a tree - Freeform, BAMF Rickard Stark, BAMF Starks, Burnt Rickard Stark, F/M, Jon is the trueborn, Magic, Multi, N plus A equals J, Ned knows all, Powerful North, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Rhaegar Lives, Rickard Stark survives, Rickard's Rebellion, Robb is a bastard, Robert's Rebellion, Skinchanging, The Burnt Lord, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Warging, Wolf Pack, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-10-21 13:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 69
Words: 133,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17643806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfWinter/pseuds/KingOfWinter
Summary: Ever since Torrhen Stark bent the knee, the North has been planning it's revenge. 280 years later, Aerys attempts to burn Rickard Stark alive; he survives at the cost of his eldest son, a debt he desires to repay. The North will throw off the dragons that have kept it subjugated and show the seven kingdoms who are one, why you do not insult the 8000 year old direwolf.An AU of Robert's Rebellion.





	1. Jamie I: Burn Them All.

Jamie Lannister’s hands tightened on their grip of his sword as he watched Rickard Stark be dragged into the throne room of the Red Keep. He had been attacked as he entered the city, dragged from his horse along with the nobles riding with him and brought before the king. The other nobles were already dead and Rickard Stark was not much better. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye while his lip was swollen. His long, solemn face was emotionless, his grey eyes cold as he was forced to his knees before the Iron Throne.  
King Aerys Targaryen grinned down at him, looking all the world like a gargoyle, with his long uncut nails and unruly hair. “Stark. Your son is a traitor. He threatened my son. He insulted my house. You CANNOT INSULT THE DRAGON!”  
Aerys rose form his chair with the last few words, glaring down upon him. “Bring in his son. Let them see each other one last time before they die!”  
Minutes later Brandon Stark was similarly dragged into the throne room. He was forced to his knees beside his father. His hair and clothes were unkempt from his time in the Black cells and his left eye was swollen shut from a blow he had taken when he was arrested. He held himself gingerly, as though he had several broken ribs.  
“What do you two have to say for yourselves? Any last words before you die?” Aerys asked.  
Rickard tilted his head slightly and glanced at his son. Neither spoke a word.  
Aerys shifted, unused to anyone ignoring him. “I am your King and you will answer me!”  
Rickard shifted his gaze back to the king. “Trial by combat.” He said, so softly that everyone had to strain to hear him.  
Jamie’s heart sunk in his chest as he realised what Rickard Stark had asked for. He knew what would happen now, and now both of them were truly lost.  
Aerys grinned and cackled maniacally. “The champion of house Targaryen is fire Lord Stark. You will burn like a roast on a spit! SEIZE HIM!”  
The guards rushed forward and seized Rickard before suspending him from the rafters. On the floor Brandon Stark began to struggle. “You whoreson! Give me a sword and I’ll gut you! Your son stole my sister! What about justice for him? Listen here you Mad King!”  
Aerys glared at the heir to the north. “You want a sword grab one.” He nodded at his guards who bound a strange leather device around his neck  
“Ser Jamie” The King called and Jamie almost fainted. “Your sword!” He cried. Jamie nodded and drew his sword from its sheath before ascending to pass it to the king. The king nodded and threw it just out of reach of Brandon Stark. “Grab the sword and you can free your father. Else he dies.”  
With that he nodded to his pyromancer who stepped forward with a jar of wildfire in his hands. Brandon stood there watching, clearly unaware of what was about to happen.  
Jamie watched him though and he glanced up at the roof where two white ravens were perched. Jamie frowned. He had never seen white ravens before except the ones the citadel used to announce the coming of winter.  
As he watched the two ravens flew down from their perch on high and attacked the pyromancer. He stumbled back as the birds attacked his eyes and hands.  
The pyromancer rushed away from the mad birds, and towards Ser Jonothor Darry, who drew his sword and hit one of the birds out of the air. The other flew out of reach and started cawing loudly. The pyromancer stepped forward once more and threw the jar at Rickard’s pyre. It landed and began to eat the wood hungrily, the flames already beginning to lick Rickard Stark’s armour.  
At this Brandon Stark truly began to struggle. He rushed forward in a vain attempt to seize the sword, but the leather device only tightened around his neck. He growled and Jamie was distracted by the first of Rickard Stark’s screams. It cut through the air like a knife through butter and Jamie quickly swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. It would do no good to show weakness now.  
Brandon was now bent over as Rickards screams continued, Brandon’s face purpling as he struggled against the choker around his neck. As Jamie watched, Brandon’s skin seemed to darken and a howl burst forth from his lips. He watched in horror as the thing that had been Brandon Stark stood up.  
It seemed to be some half man, half wolf hybrid. It stood taller than any other man in the room and had long arm’s which ended in five vicious foot long claws on each hand. It was a hairy, brutish beast and as he watched it clenched it’s neck causing the choker to burst off. It immediately turned and ran to Rickard Stark, leaping through the flames to save him.  
The weight of the beast snapped the ropes that bound Lord Rickard and together the man and beast tumbled to the Red stone floor. With Lord Rickard safe, the beast turned to the King who was perched upon his throne. The beast growled deep in it’s chest and took a step towards the King.  
This seemed to shake the entire room from the stupor that had taken over it and the guards rushed forward to stop it. The first to reach the beast was Ser Jonothor Darry, who was gutted and killed so quickly it was pathetic. Prince Llewyn Martell rushed forward to distract the beast while the Lord Commander and Ser Barristan Selmy rushed to protect the king. Jamie shuffled his feet, unwilling to go forward but unwilling to go back.  
More guards rushed the beast but it was all to no avail, with an ease almost bordering on contempt, it threw five the guards into the walls with a single swing of it’s massive arms. In the next swing it caught Llewyn Martell’s head in it’s paw like grasp and crushed his skull. The doors burst open then and more guards rushed into the room. The beast took them all on, and soon their blood decorated the walls.  
Everyone began running from the room, the king already whisked away. The beast turned around and his grey eyes fell on Jamie. It’s eyes bore into him with a hate so intense that he felt water running down his leg. It took a step towards him but stopped when Rickard Stark groaned. It seemed torn for a moment before turning and rushing to Lord Stark’s side. It picked the burnt lord up with a gentleness that belied the violence it had displayed earlier and rushed from the throne room and out into the Red Keep.


	2. Gerold I: The White Bull

Ser Gerold Hightower sighed as he climbed the steps of the White Tower. He knew what was coming now, what the realm had been building towards for the last few years.

War.

As he thought on the day’s events he shivered uncontrollably. Whatever the thing was that had been Brandon Stark, it had been an absolute terror throughout the city, killing 37 guards, 102 goldcloaks and two sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, before disappearing to no one knows where.

He mourned as he thought of his lost brothers. In his heart it kindled a burning desire for revenge, but if the army the north fielded had even 10 of those abominations, it would be one hell of a fight.

As he entered the solar of the White Tower, Gerold observed the state of his surviving brothers. Ser Barristan Selmy was sitting in front of the hearth staring blankly into the flames, while Jamie Lannister was perched on the windowsill, staring off into the distance, tears dripping down his face.

“Boy” Ser Gerold said, “Are you alright?”

Jamie continued to stare out of the window. After a moment’s silence he opened his mouth. “It stared at me.” He said. “It looked at me… it was filled with such hate. But the scariest thing, was it’s eye’s. They were Brandon Stark’s eyes. Grey, cold and angry…and knowing, knowing who did this too him.”

The tears were streaming down his face now, the sobs bidding from his lips uncontrollably.

“All I ever wanted was to be in the Kingsguard” He continued. “To be seen with knights like you and Ser Arthur Dayne… and now I’m here and I want nothing more than to leave. To go back to Casterly Rock.”

Gerold moved forward and patted the boy on the shoulder. “Come, you swore an oath. You cannot abandon your king in his hour of need. We need to plan what to do now.”

In his seat by the fire, Ser Barristan stirred. “I have been raised in the light of the seven my whole life, but I cannot deny the power of these old gods.”

Ser Gerold snorted. “Surely you do not believe that… that… abomination…was of the old gods.”

Ser Barristan looked at him with knowing eyes and nodded grimly.

“I met a green man once. It was at harrenhall, during the tourney. I was standing on the water’s edge, looking towards the isle of faces, when a boat appeared out of the mist. It carried a green man and he greeted me. I began to talk to him of the mysteries of the weirwood and he said something that has stuck with me ever since. He said ‘the old powers are waking and the Starks have more to do with it than the world.’ I have seen a northern execution. I saw the Weirwood tree drink the blood of the criminal. Ever since then I have worshiped the faith, but respected the old gods. They have power and none can deny it.”

“I don’t care if it was by the old gods or not, what Brandon Stark did was an affront to the gods. He deserves death, and if the same affliction is found in his family, then they deserve it too.” Ser Gerold replied.

“Speaking of Brandon” Jamie said, “Have they found him yet?”

“No.” Ser Gerold replied. “He was last seen in flea bottom. The gold cloaks are scouring the area now.”

A knock came on the door and Gerold opened it to reveal a young page bearing a message. He passed it to the fabled knight wordlessly before fleeing. Gerold opened the scroll and saw words hastily scrawled.

_Ser Gerold,_

_Riots have begun in flea bottom after a septon tried to burn the godswood there._

_Requesting immediate assistance,_

_Ser Alliser Thorne, commander of the city watch._

Gerold sighed as he turned to his brothers. “Riots have begun in flea bottom. The city watch is in need of assistance from the garrison. Ser Jamie you go and guard the king, Ser Barristan and I shall lead the garrison to the streets.”

Gerold rushed down the stairs, his white cape billowing behind him. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was a power in the old gods, the gods of the first men. In truth their power had been steadily growing ever since Aegon finished his conquest. It had been slow by all accounts, but slowly the old gods reach had spread south and now Weirwoods could be found growing as far south as Bitterbridge.

The green men could also be found wandering all around river lands, tending to the growing tree’s and defending them from rogue septons who often tried to burn them down.

As he reached the bottom of the steps he came across Ser Willam Darry.

“Ser Willam” he greeted, “gather some men of the garrison, there are riots in flea bottom.”

The man nodded and rushed away.

He met the men at the gates of the red keep, the gates that only this morning had been the site of the death of the northern lords that had accompanied Lord Stark. Their blood still stained the walls.

Ser Gerold had been most saddened to see the death of Eldric Darkstark. The man was perhaps the greatest horseman to have ever lived. At the tourney of Harrenhall he had broken 24 lances against Rhaegar before King Aerys interfered, claiming the northerner was cheating.

He had been gracious in defeat, even though he had never truly lost. Then the northerners, already angry over Aerys accusation, were confronted with Rhaegar crowning the Lyanna Stark Queen of Love and Beauty.

If only, Ser Gerold mused, If only Eldric Darkstark had have won. Then no one would be in the position they would be now. The realm would be happy and content and Aerys would not have totally slipped over the edge of insanity.

“We need Rhaegar back” He murmured to himself as the Red Keep’s garrison appeared. Together they rode out into the city to help put down the riots and hopefully a temporary end to the madness that had begun ever since Brandon Stark entered the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I just want to clear up as I feel I didn't explain it very well in this chapter.
> 
> After Aegon's conquest the Stark's did something (I will explain what, just not right now) that began a revival of the faith of the old gods in Westeros. It means that many more smallfolk now follow the old gods and there is even a godswood in fleabottom. Weirwoods are now also growing all across Westeros, as far south as Bitterbridge in the Reach.


	3. Rickard I: The Burnt Lord

The first thing that The Burnt Lord was aware of was the pain. It was everywhere at once and somehow seemed to be simultaneously hot and cold. His throat was parched and he groaned in pain.

“My Lord?”

He opened his eyes and saw a concerned face leaning over him.

“Where am I?” He asked the man.

“You’re in the underground my lord, we got you here after Aerys tried to kill you.”

With those words it all came rushing back. The mad dash to the city, the assault at the city gates and the subsequent burning…and his son. He struggled to get up.

“My Lord you mustn’t move, you only inflame your injuries.” The man said as he gently pushed him back down.

“My son…” The Burnt Lord said, “Where is my son?”

The man’s face filled with sorrow. “He’s over here My Lord. He doesn’t have long left.”

Rickard turned his head to see his son, sprawled on the mattress across from him. He was a ghastly sight to behold. He had so many crossbow bolts sticking out of him, it was a wonder he wasn’t dead yet. He also had a spearhead stuck in his side and so many cuts that he more resembled the flayed man on the Bolton’s banner, rather than a human being.

“Brandon” He groaned.

His son turned his head slightly and Rickard saw in horror that he was missing an eye.

“Father…” He said. “I’m sorry…this…was…all…my…fault. Forgive me.”

The Burnt Lord stirred and though his body was screaming in agony he stumbled to his feet.

The man rushed across to stop him. “My Lord you mus-“

“Get out of my way!” The Burnt Lord snarled as he stumbled across to his son. He knelt next to him and grasped his bloody hand.

“Father…promise me…you will make them pay…Make them pay for taking Lyanna. Make them pay for burning you. Make them pay for killing me.”

The Burnt Lord grimaced. “You’re not going to die today Brandon.”

Brandon looked at him and his eyes shone clear. “I’m going to die today. But I saved you. That’s enough for me.”

With that he closed his eyes and rested once more. The Burnt Lord returned to his bed and lay down. The man came and began to wipe his marred flesh with a cool cloth. It provided little relief to the fire that burned within him though.

“What happened? How did we get out?” The Burnt Lord asked the man. The man looked at him strangely.

“What do you remember?” He asked as he continued to wipe his body down.

“I entered the Red Keep with the other lords. We were attacked and I was dragged into the throne room. Then everything goes sort of hazy.”

The man nodded in sympathy. “King Aerys tried to burn you alive. While you were being burned Brandon was forced to watch, while a choker was attacked around his neck. He was choking himself to death in an attempt to free you, when apparently he changed forms into a wolf-hybrid. He escaped his bonds and freed you, before going on a rampage through the city. He found his way to the safehouse in fleabottom, where I took him and you into the underground before the goldcloaks could find you.”

“He skinchanged?” The Burnt Lord asked. “But skinchanging like that hasn’t been seen in over-”

“3000 years.” The man agreed.

“How though?” The Burnt Lord asked, confused. The man shrugged.

“I did study the mysteries of the Weirwood for a year when I was younger and I have a theory.” He said after a moment’s silence. “Naturally” He continued, “The Stark’s have always proven to be strong with magic, indeed it was Stark blood that began the reawakening. I think that it might have been lying dormant within him for all these years and the stress of having to watch you be burned alive woke it within him.”

The Burnt Lord shuddered at the amount of pain that Brandon must have been in to awaken the beast within. He looked at his son, who was lying peacefully, his face serene. “How is he now?” he asked the man.

The man looked at him and walked over. He touched his neck where his pulse should have been and sighed. “I’m sorry My Lord, he’s passed.”

The fire within The Burnt Lord burnt so hot that it was painful. But it was a good pain, The Burnt Lord surmised, a pain to wash away the frivolities, to allow him to focus. He wanted vengeance. He had a blood debt that was due. He turned to the man.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Gared, My Lord”

“Scribe a message for Moat Cailin for me.”

The man nodded and rushed to gather a parchment, quill and an inkwell. He gathered them and placed them on the table. “What should I write?” Gared asked.

The Burnt Lord opened his mouth and Gared began to scribe.

 

_Send this on using every raven you have,_

_To all houses great and small,_

_I have a blood debt I must repay,_

_There shall be no mercy for those that stand in my way,_

_The North Remembers,_

_Rickard Stark, The Burnt Lord._

Gared finished scratching the letter and handed it to The Burnt Lord to proof read. He scanned it and nodded.

“Send it to Moat Cailin at once.” The Burnt Lord said and Gared rushed away, leaving The Burnt Lord alone with his eldest son’s corpse. He struggled to his feet once more and inspected his son’s body.

He counted the broken spearhead’s, every single one. All 12 of them.

He counted the crossbows bolts, every single one. All 23 of them.

He counted the cuts, every single one. All 34 of them.

He counted his missing son, the first skin changer to have been seen in 3000 years.

He would repay his debts to house Targaryen regardless of the cost.

He would throw them from the throne their ancestors had forged.

He WOULD avenge his son.

“I will avenge you my firstborn son, I swear it by earth and water, I swear it by bronze and iron, I swear it by blood and bile, and I swear it by ice and fire. I will avenge you and cast the Targaryen’s from their throne.”

The Burnt Lord got to his feet and observed a bowl of water sitting on the bench in the corner of the room. He hobbled over and observed his reflection. His face was a horrible mess of melted, marred, skin. His beard, eyebrows, eyelashes and hair had all been burned away by the green flames. He was a true horror to look upon, but he was content. The Burnt Lord looked and didn’t see the his marred flesh, he looked and saw a reminder of his skin changing son, a reminder of what he’d been and what he’d vowed to do.

The Burnt Lord would have his vengeance.

But first he had to ensure his other children were safe. The Burnt Lord closed his eyes and stretched his mind, searching for his white raven.


	4. Jamie II: The Mad King's Wishes

Jamie Lannister shifted uncomfortably as he heard the screams that emanated from behind the door. He hated this, having to guard the king while he engaged in his hideous acts. He remembered when he’d first had to stand guard while he raped his wife. ‘We’re sworn to protect her’ he had hissed at Ser Jonothor Darry. Ser Jonothor simply nodded and said ‘we are, but not from him’. That was when Jamie Lannister first realised joining the kingsguard might not have been Cersei’s brightest idea.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the corridor and Jamie prepared to protect the king. Thoughts of Brandon Stark filled his mind and he wondered if he had finally come to exact his revenge. His heart was pounding in his chest and almost burst from sheer relief when he realised it was only Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan.

They looked slightly worse for wear with Ser Gerold’s armour splattered with blood and both of their cloaks were darkened by soot. “Ser Jamie” Ser Gerold greeted, “Where is the king?”

Jamie glanced behind him briefly and nodded towards the door. As if in answer one of Rhaella’s screams echoed through the corridor again. Ser Gerold did not even flinch, he just came and stood guard next Jamie.

A while later Aerys emerged from his wife’s chamber’s, almost bouncing with glee.

“Ah, Ser Gerold,” He cackled “You have come back. We have much to discuss.”

He began to walk to his own chambers, and Ser Gerold and Ser Jamie fell into step behind him.

“Have you found that monster yet?” He asked.

“No, my king. It seems to have disappeared somewhere in Fleabottom. We are searching for it with all diligence.”

“Good. I want all the Stark’s heads. They’re all traitors.”

“I will send a raven at once.”

“Good.”

The king arrived at his chambers and settled into the plush chair behind his desk.

“Rhaegar needs to return to the capital and fix this mess he has made.”

Ser Gerold nodded in agreeance. “I will depart tonight and find him.”

“Good. Leave me alone for now. I must devise a way to destroy these Starks.”

Both men bowed and left Aerys alone to his thoughts. Outside, Ser Barristan was waiting.

“What now?” he asked fearfully.

“War,” Ser Gerold replied simply. “War with the north. He wants all the Stark’s heads.”

“You realise what war with the north means don’t you?” Ser Barristan asked.

“The wolf’s maw will be shut without a doubt.”

The legendary wolf’s maw, mused Ser Jamie, the underground river that Torrhen Stark’s bastard brother, Brandon Snow, had discovered. They had developed it and used it to transport goods from one side of the kingdom to the other in much shorter times. Jamie knew a lot about it, his father had often talked about it. He had even gone as far as offering Rickard Stark’s second son, Eddard, the lordship of Castamere in exchange for free use of the river. He had been most wroth when he was informed that Eddard Stark did not want the lordship and had instead accepted a holdfast in the north. ‘What could the north offer him that he could not have tenfold of in the westerlands!’ he had raged.

“It will be a cost we will just have to bear until the war is over.”

“What of the White Eye?” Ser Barristan continued.

Another legendary northern institution, although this was legendary for different reasons. It was a group of wargs who did not want to abide by the rules the Stark’s had set for them. They formed a splinter group and used their skills to become the world’s greatest assassins and thieves. They were just as effective as the faceless men, and cost just as much as well.

“They hate the Stark’s.” Ser Gerold snorted. “They’re more likely to side with us!”

Jamie laughed then. Ser Gerold glared at him. “Something funny boy?” He said with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Do you know who the last Targaryen king was who attacked the North?” He said, “Baelor the Blessed. Allowed the faith militant to march against the north. None of them ever returned. Baelor died days after they attacked Moat Cailin by a spider bite. The ONLY time those two work together is when the north is threatened.”

“Your wrong boy.” Ser Gerold snapped back. “Even so, we must keep an extra eye on the king. We need to fill the empty spots and bring back Arthur and Oswell. I’ll ask Richard Lonmouth and Willem Darry to stand in while I’m away. Keep a watch out for everything. We’re dealing with more than just assassins in the dark here. War with the North means monsters in the night as Brandon Stark proved.”

At the thought of Brandon Stark, Jamie shivered. At night those angry grey eyes still haunted his nightmares. He just wanted to go home now, home to Casterly Rock, back to Cersei and Tyrion and away from this wretched game that the other nobles seemed to love.

“And what of the other great houses?” Ser Jamie asked.

“What of them?” Ser Gerold replied. “They will side with their rightful king or be punished.”

“By all accounts,” Ser Barristan interrupted, “Jon Arryn loves Eddard Stark like his own son. Robert Baratheon loves him like his own brother, and hates Rhaegar with equal passion after Rhaegar crowned his betrothed Queen of Love and Beauty. Hoster Tully’s daughter was betrothed to Brandon Stark. Quellon Greyjoy and Rickard Stark were very close friends. All of them will have some level of sympathy to the Stark’s cause. What if they join the Stark’s?”

“We still have the Reach and Dorne,” Ser Gerold snarled “ The Reach alone can field 100,000 men. I for one fail to believe that even if those lords do declare for the Stark’s, that they will have unanimous support.” His face softened for a bit. “I will go and get Rhaegar. He will know what to do.”

“I know Robert Baratheon.” Ser Barristan replied, “He loves Eddard Stark as much as you hate Brandon Stark. He will fight for the Stark’s even if he must fight alone.”

“He WILL do his duty to the crown!” Ser Gerold replied hotly.

Ser Barristan smiled sadly, almost wistfully. “What is duty to a brother’s love?” He sighed then. “What is honour to a woman’s arms?” He added as an afterthought. Then he stiffened as he realised what he had just said.

Jamie glanced at Ser Gerold and saw the man was aghast at what Ser Barristan had just said.

“I will excuse that breach of protocol Ser Barristan” He said frostily. “As long as I never hear anything like that again!”

Ser Barristan, suitably chastised, muttered a humble apology and rushed away. Ser Gerold turned to Jamie.

“I am leaving to go and get Rhaegar now. Protect the king with your life. Honour your oaths Ser Jamie.”

“I will”

 

“Good” Ser Gerold said, seemingly appeased, before turning and striding away, his white cape billowing out behind him.


	5. Eddard I: White Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first look at the Ned and my longest chapter so far. Hopefully this isn't too bad, I'll be the first to admit I'm not that good at writing romance. Please comment what you think.

The boat glided along the smooth blue waters of the Bay of Crabs. Eddard Stark stood at the prow of the ship, feeling the fresh sea air on his face. Next to him Ashara Dayne stirred from where she had nestled herself in the crook of his elbow. He had met her at Gulltown, he travelling from the Eryie and her from Dragonstone where she was lady in waiting to Princess Elia Martell. They were on their way to attend Brandon’s wedding to Catelyn Tully where hopefully he would get his father’s permission to marry her. He smiled at her as she turned her face up to look at him.

“Ned,” she said concernedly, “What if your father doesn’t want you to marry me?”

He laughed then. The idea that his southern loving father would not want him to marry Ashara Dayne, the sister of Ser Arthur Dayne, was laughable.

She scowled at his reaction and hit him on the arm. “It’s not funny you know.”

“Father is all about southern alliances. He will be overjoyed to have a good-daughter related to Ser Arthur Dayne. You’re worrying over nothing Ash. We will go to Brandon’s wedding, I will present you to my father, and then we will get married. It’s simple.”

“Have you decided what Lordship you’re going to take up yet?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Ashara poked her tongue out at him, before nestling back into his arms.

“You’re quite lucky you know. It’s not every second son that has a variety of lordships to choose from.”

Eddard snorted in reply. “It’s only because they want free access to the Wolf’s Maw and they think I can give it to them.”

“How many lordships were you offered?”

“Five. Tywin Lannister offered me Castamere. Hoster Tully offered me Oldstones. Mace Tyrell offered me some seat along the Mander. Robert, perhaps the only one to offer without expecting some form of access to the river, offered me the lordship of the Rainwood and father offered me Mount Starpoint.”

“Castamere is said to be the second richest mines in the west.”

“Aye and filled with bodies. I have no intention of seeing the Rains of Castamere become the Starks of Castamere once I’ve displeased him.”

“Ah, so Castamere is not the one.”

Eddard frowned as he realised what she was doing. “I’m not talking to you about my lordship anymore.”

Ashara laughed and it made Eddard’s heart soar. He loved that sound, it could make even the bleakest day better. He looked out towards the coast as it passed by.

“What I’m worried about is if your brother doesn’t approve. Your brother is much more formidable than my father. I have no intention of ending up on the receiving end of Dawn.”

“He won’t interfere. He was with us when we knelt before the Weirwood and were betrothed by your gods.”

She held up her wrist then, and the purple sleeve of her dress fell back to reveal a simple Weirwood bracelet, entwined around her wrist. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. It was one of the happiest moments of his life.

_She appeared at the edge of the godswood like a vision sent from his gods. She was dressed in a flowing gown of purple and grey, and when she stepped out of the shadows of the towering oaks and into the moonlight she more resembled a goddess, than the human she was. He smiled at her shyly, feeling once more like the shy, young man who had to rely on the courage and smooth ways of his older brother to ask her to dance._

_Next to her walked her brother in his full kingsguard armour, the legendary greatsword, Dawn, sheathed at his side. Ned’s mouth went dry as he looked at him. What if he didn’t approve? What if he thought Ashara deserved better than a second son? What if…_

_“Hello Ned.” She said._

_Eddard Stark swallowed and stared stupidly._

_“I know you told me he was quiet sister, but I didn’t realise he was this quiet.” Arthur Dayne said after a moment of silence._

_“You look beautiful.” He finally managed to sputter out. She smiled at him, her purple eyes twinkling with laughter._

_Behind him Howland Reed leaned in. “You know how stupid you look right now, right?” He whispered in his ear. Ned turned around and glared at him. “Shut up.” He hissed._

_He turned back to Ashara who was making her way to his side. She reached and extended her hand he grasped it in his hand and together they made their way before the heart tree of Harrenhall._

_“So how does this work?” She asked him as she squeezed his hand._

_“We kneel before the heart tree and wait. It might not work, but if we are still then they are said to work faster but if it doesn’t work we don’t have to worry because most people can get married without one of these it’s just if my father wants-“_

_He was abruptly cut off by Ashara placing one of her fingers on his lips. He caught himself, realising he had begun rambling in his nervousness._

_She pulled on his hand and together they knelt down before the terrible carven face. Behind them Howland Reed and Arthur Dayne took up their positions as witnesses before the Old Gods._

_They had been kneeling for a barely a minute when he felt dry wood sneaking its way in between their intertwined palms. Next to him, he felt Ashara stiffen in surprise and shock. The wood crept up and around and bound their wrists together. Ned’s heart soared as he realised the gravity of what was happening. The gods were ordaining and blessing a marriage between him and Ashara Dayne! He felt the wood stop moving and a wind whistled through the trees. Opening his eyes, he turned to Ashara, who still had her eyes clenched tightly closed, unsure of what had just transpired._

_“Ash,” He whispered, “You can open your eyes now.”_

_She opened her eyes and turned to him smiling. “It worked?” She asked._

_“It workerd.” He agreed. He helped her to her feet and turned to see a shocked Howland Reed and confused Arthur Dayne._

_“I was under the impression that these things went for a lot longer” Arthur said with a frown on his face._

_Ashara frowned too and turned to Ned. “He’s right. You told me that it could take all night and still not work.”_

_Howland Reed stuttered forward._

_“Ned…” He breathed, “What just happened is unheard of! The shortest I’ve ever heard of anyone kneeling was five hours! You were there for barely a minute before the gods started to move!”_

_He rushed forward to inspect the Weirwood knot that bound their wrists together. He looked at it closely before pulling his obsidian knife from its sheath on his hip._

_“Do you want me to cut it?” he asked._

_“No.” Ashara replied, “Leave it. I want to remember this, I want to savour every moment.”_

_She smiled at him again and clenched his hand in hers. She stepped forward and the next thing he knew her lips were gently brushing his…_

His lips still tingled from the phantom memory of that kiss. Lifting his own arm up, his sleeve fell back to reveal his own Weirwood bracelet entwined around his wrist.

“It was funny when I showed my brothers and sisters this.” Ned said as he inspected the Weirwood. “It inspired Brandon and Lyanna to attempt to get someone to kneel before the gods with them so they wouldn’t have to honour their betrothals.”

Ashara frowned at him. “I thought you told me this was a requirement for most northern betrothals.”

“It is. Father’s southern proclivities outweighed his duty to his gods in this case however much to the disgruntlement of more than one of his bannermen. Lord Ryswell was particularly upset as it was well known that Brandon and his daughter Barbarey loved each other.”

“That’s a shame. Didn’t they kneel before the gods?”

“My father banned Brandon from doing so. He said the North needed the southern alliances that only marriage could bring.”

“I can’t imagine Brandon just accepting your father’s commands. He seemed to…wild for that.”

“To be honest, he didn’t at first. He declared he was going to ride to the Rillsand kneel before a godswood and by his own words ‘allow the old gods to decide’. Father chased after him and when he returned all talk of marrying Barbarey was dead, instead he was going to marry Catelyn Tully.”

“What did your father tell him?”

“I don’t know. Neither of them ever saw fit to tell me.”

Ned looked out over the waves, wrapped in thoughts of his elder brother, when he first noticed the white raven winging its way towards him. He watched it curiously as it alighted on the railing next to him. With a shock, he realised it was his father’s raven.

“Ned.” It cawed. “Ned.”

Ned pushed Ashara out of his arms and stepped towards the bird. It had a scroll tied around one of its legs.

“Ned?” Ashara asked, “Did that bird just say your name?”

Ignoring her, he reached out a hand to grab the scroll. He unfurled it and began to read.

_Ned,_

_Your brother is dead, murdered by the Mad King._

_He rode to King’s Landing after finding out that Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna._

_I have been horribly scarred. I’m hidden in King’s Landing at the moment, we’re planning to smuggle me out in a week._

_Aerys has called for all our heads. I’ve already sent a message to Moat Cailin and the northern banners have been called._

_You are the heir to Winterfell now, and you need to return home. I will go straight to Winterfell and marshal the entire army, you go to Moat Cailin and lead the vanguard into the riverlands._

_You need to convince Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon to fight for us, not the Targaryens._

_Hopefully I’ll see you soon,_

_Father._

 

His heart, pounding in his chest he glanced at Ashara who was looking at him concernedly. He turned back to the white raven.

“Father?” He asked.

“ **Yes.** ” The bird cawed.

“I’m on a ship to Saltpans at the moment. We’re meant to arrive by this afternoon. I can be at the Eyrie within five days if I ride hard. From there, I’ll catch a ship to the Wolf’s Maw and take the vanguard south.”

“ **Good.** ” The bird said. With that it stretched it’s wings once more and flew back across the water.

Ned slumped to the deck of the ship, the scroll clutched tightly in his hands. Breathing heavily he thought on what his father had just told him. Brandon was dead? Brandon couldn’t be dead! He started breathing heavily, beginning to panic, when Ashara’s voice cut through the haze within his own head.

“Ned, What’s wrong?” She asked as she knelt down next to him. He glanced at her fearfully.

“Ashara when we get to Saltpans you need to go home.”

“Home?” She asked, “What about Brandon’s wedding? What about presenting me to your father?”

“It’s been called off.” He managed to choke out.

“Called off? Ned what happened? What does that scroll say?”

He didn’t answer, just pressed his lips tightly together. Gently, she reached down and eased the scroll from his shaking hands. There was a moment of silence while she read it, before she slumped down next to him too.

“Oh Ned,” She breathed, “I’m so sorry.”

She pulled him into her arms and began to stroke his hair. Her lips brushed his forehead, but strangely it did not make him feel good. All Ned could think about was Catelyn Tully, promised to be the next lady of Winterfell.

“Ashara, you need to go back to Starfall.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going with you.” She held up her arm then to show him her Weirwood bracelet then, and it made him want to cry. The stupid, stubborn, beautiful girl, why did she have to make this so hard?

“Ashara, I promise I will come to Starfall as soon as the war is over and marry you. If we lose however and you’re with me you’re going to suffer as well.”

Like a stubborn mule she shook her head again. “No. I’m coming with you.”

Ned sighed and went to argue further before she interrupted him.

“Shut your mouth Eddard Stark. You took me before a Weirwood and your gods blessed us. I’m not one to deny the gods, and neither are you. I will stay with you to the bitter end, even if it leads to death.”

“Ash…”

“No, don’t argue. I’m coming with you, at the very least until I’m assured you’re going to be safe.”

Eddard Stark went to argue further but she stopped him with another kiss. It tingled the same way that first one had, all those nights ago, before the smiles died.


	6. Jon I: Dark Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned has to make a hard decision that upsets Ashara. Please comment an tell me what you think.

The booming voice of Robert Baratheon echoed throughout the lonely halls of the Eyrie, as Jon Arryn sat in his solar contemplating the contents of the letter before him. The door to his solar swung open to reveal a veritable giant. Strong, six and a half feet tall and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy, Robert Baratheon strode in and sat down across the desk from Jon.

“So Jon,” He said as he reached for the goblet of wine on his foster father’s desk, “what did you call me here for?”

Jon reached out and snatched the wine goblet from Robert’s hands before he could lift it to his lips. Wordlessly, he passed him a letter, the letter that doomed them all to war. Robert frowned and took the letter from him. He watched Robert’s face as he read the letter, switching from shock, to disbelief, to anger, to the fury that the Baratheon’s were so famous for. His jaw clenched and his face reddened.

 

_To Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East,_

_Rickard and Brandon Stark are hereby denounced as enemies of the realm and were executed for treason._

_Prove your loyalty to your rightful king and bring me the head of your ward Eddard Stark._

_Aerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

 

“He calls for Eddard Stark’s head!?! What’s wrong with the man! First his son dishonours my betrothed, then he kills my best friend’s brother and father and now he demands his head as well!!! Enough is enough I say, let’s call our banners and throw these dragons from their throne!”

“That’s not all.” Jon handed Robert another letter, the letter that Rickard Stark had sent himself.

 

_To Lord Jon Arryn,_

_No doubt by now you will have heard of my demise. I assure such tales are false._

_Brandon rode to King’s Landing after hearing that Rhaegar had kidnapped my daughter Lyanna._

_Aerys did attempt to kill me and Brandon, but we were able to escape. Brandon died later of wounds sustained during our escape._

_It is time, once and for all to end the Targaryen’s. It is time to enact the plans we have been making for the last few years._

_Rickard Stark._

Robert’s countenance became even angrier. “Rhaegar…kidnapped…Lyanna!” He managed to choke out.

A vein began pulsing on the side of his head. His face purpled and he slammed his hands down on the desk.

“Where’s Ned now? Let me lead some men to go and get him! I’ll get Ned, we’ll call our banners and crush the skulls of those that stand in our way!”

“Ned was meant to be on his way to his brother’s wedding. I have no clue where he is now. Last I heard he was meeting someone in Gulltown, before heading to his brother’s wedding.”

“We need to get him back.”

“He’ll find his way back.”

Robert stood up and walked to his solar’s window. He stood there, hands clenched on the sill, staring out the window.

“I will not let anyone harm Ned.” He said lowly. “The man is more a brother to me than Stannis or Renly will ever be.”

“I would rather revolt against Aerys than hand him Eddard Stark’s head-“

“Jon!” Robert suddenly exclaimed as he pointed out the window, “Look!”

A white raven flew in through the open window, alighting on Jon’s desk.

“That’s the bird that used to follow Ned around when he was younger!”

“Aye.” Jon said as he looked at it curiously.

“ **Jon.** ” It cawed. Robert jumped in shock. The bird hopped forward and Jon saw a scroll attached to the bird’s leg. With trembling hands he reached forward and grasped the scroll. He pulled it back and opened and when he saw who it was from he almost collapsed in relief.

 

_Jon,_

_I am on my way to the Bloody Gate via Saltpans. I will meet you there. Worry not, for the moment I am safe and aware of the situation regarding the king and my brother._

_I should be there within four days,_

_Ned._

 

He handed the letter to Robert and put his head in his hands. Ned was safe. That was good. Now came the waiting game.

Five days later and Eddard Stark ascended to the gilded halls of the Eyrie; with an unexpected, and in Robert’s eyes unwelcome, visitor on his arm. Lady Ashara Dayne had barely left Ned’s side from the second they had arrived. They were all gathered in his solar now, even Lady Dayne much to Robert’s consternation.

“She could be a spy for the Targaryen’s!” Robert had ranted. Lady Dayne, much to her credit, had fixed Robert with a steely, cool gaze and promptly informed him that if she “was working for the Targaryen’s she would have slit Ned’s throat on the way here and be done with the whole sorry business.” Jon couldn’t help but admire her in a way. Not many would be brave enough to stand up to a blustering Robert. Which was precisely why the letter he had received from Hoster Tully was only that much more painful to deliver.

They were all sitting around his table now, Ned in front of him, Robert on Ned’s left and Lady Dayne on his right. He fingered the letter from Hoster Tully in front of him. Robert was scowling heavily at the girl who was just staring at him, totally ignoring Robert.

“Ned,” He began. “In war, we have to make hard decisions sometimes… decisions that might not make us happy, but will ensure the safety of those we love…you know what I’m doing a horrible job at this. Just read the bloody letter yourself.”

He passed the letter to Ned who opened it and started reading it. Lady Dayne and Robert read over his shoulder and the contrast of their reactions would have been comical if the nature of the letter were not so shattering. Lady Dayne’s face was aghast, while Robert looked supremely smug and overjoyed.

“I cannot.” He said after he finished reading the letter.

Robert snorted then. “Believe me Ned when I say I’m overjoyed you’ve finally found an interest in wenches, but aside from between the sheets they don’t have much use. Marry the Tully girl, get her father’s troops, and you can use this…wench…as a mistress.”

Even Jon winced at the glare that Ned sent Robert’s way.

“I have no intention of becoming your mistress Ned,” Lady Dayne said as she grabbed his hand. “Surely Lord Tully will understand if you tell him that he would be condemning his daughter to a loveless marriage. I love you Ned and I promised you I would stick by you to the end. Please don’t do this.”

Ned glanced at Ashara before looking back to Jon. “What do you think?” He asked.

Jon winced. He knew what Ned wanted to hear, but it wasn’t what he needed to hear.

“Ned.” He sighed. “You have a duty to your house. You have a duty to ensure that we will win this war. Hoster Tully has the troops we need. It is the hardest thing to give up what we love for our duty, but love is a luxury only afforded to the smallfolk. Marry the girl I say, marry her and be done with it. I am sorry it’s not the life you want, but by all account’s Catelyn Tully is a beautiful girl. Your life with her would be far from unhappy.”

Ned sighed and put his head in his hands. “How many troops do the river lords bring us?”

“It’s unsure, because some could revolt, but it could be about 10,000 troops.”

Ned sat up and looked at Ashara Dayne. “Ashara” he began “Jon is right.”

She scoffed and stood up. “I can’t believe I let myself be tricked by you! I thought you were a man of honour!” She screeched. She reached to her wrist and went to tear off what looked like a Weirwood bracelet when Ned reached forward and grasped her hand tightly. “Let go of me!” She yelled as she hit him with her free hand.

“I do have a duty,” He continued “but it’s not to the Tully’s.”

Immediately she stopped struggling and looked at him. “What?” she asked in confusion.

“I do have a duty. But it’s not to the Tully’s. It’s firstly to my gods, the gods of the Weirwoods, the old gods.” His tone shifted, grew softer. “The gods that betrothed us.” He smiled at her. “Then it’s too my family. Then too my house. Then too my king.”

“You fool!” Robert boomed as he stood up and walked out of the room.

“Ned,” Jon said, “I’m happy for you, truly, but you may have just doomed our war effort.”

Ned shook his head. “How many men do we need to defeat the Targaryen’s?”

“Well the Reach will attack the Stormlands, so if Storm’s End holds against the Tyrell’s then at least…40,000. If they don’t, then we will need at least 100,000.”

“How many men can you field?”

“Before or after the loyalists revolt?”

“After.”

“20,000 if I stretch it.”

“Good. Then we’ll have enough.”

“Enough! We will have no nowhere near enough!”

“How many men do you think the north can field Jon?”

“You said it was 20,000”

“I lied.”

“Well how many is it?”

“The North’s full strength is 140,000 men.”

“Ned you’ve never been one for japes, now’s not a good time to start.”

“I’m not japing. I’m being serious. We’ve hidden our strength because we didn’t want anyone else knowing. The Starks have been planning the Targaryen’s demise for almost 300 years now.”

Jon saw he was being serious and suddenly Ned Stark’s decision to not marry the Tully girl didn’t seem so bad any more.


	7. Robert I: The Stark Storm's End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short chapter, healing the rift between the two friends.

Robert left his best friend in a fury. How stupid was the man? He felt the primal urge to smash something, preferably Rhaegar’s chest, but that Dornish wench’s face would do just fine too. How would Ned like her then?

Growling deep in his throat he entered the armoury and picked up his favourite war hammer. He walked out into the practice yard and began laying into the practice dummy’s with a fury he hadn’t felt in ages.

Lyanna, his Lyanna, beautiful, sweet, gentle, lovely Lyanna; the Lyanna that was his, had been kidnapped by that…incest riddled Dragonspawn!

When he was finished all that was left of the dummies was piles of straw and broken wood. He nodded satisfied, when he saw Ned watching him from the other side of the courtyard. Thankfully the Dornish wench wasn’t with him so he went over to him.

“Robert” Ned greeted.

“Ned!” Robert exclaimed as he pulled him into a big hug. “It’s good to know you’re back safe!”

“You’re not angry at me?”

“Bah, I could never be angry at you…for too long! I love your grim, boring, countenance too much for that!”

He felt Ned relax in his arms and pulled back. “Although I still think your being stupid. Is that girl really that good in bed that you’ve decided you want her every night?”

Ned blushed a furious shade of red. “I’ve never…you know?”

“You’ve never what?”

“Dishonoured her…” Ned whispered. Robert burst out laughing.

“Well what do you see in the girl then?”

“I like her.” Ned replied simply.

“Well let me tell you something I’ve learnt from all my experience. If you stay with the same woman too long she can become boring very quickly.”

“Robert,” Ned hissed at him, “You’re betrothed to my sister!”

Robert darkened as he thought of his Lyanna being held captive by that Dragonspawn. “And she will be my queen!” He hotly replied. “I swear to you Ned, I will kill Rhaegar for what he has done to your brother and sister. I will smash his head in with my own hammer! I don’t care how many men he brings, I will just keep killing and killing till his dead and all his supporters are dead! Can you imagine it? It’ll be you, me, a few pretty wenches, some good fights and lots of food and drink!”

Ned laughed quietly. “Aye, that sounds like your idea of a good time.”

“Did Jon tell you the Grafton’s declared for the Targaryen’s?”

“The Grafton’s of Gulltown?”

“Aye. We’re going to be heading down there in a few days to take back Gulltown. Are you going to come?”

“No, I need to get home. If Gulltown’s out, I guess I’ll have to go to the fingers for a ship.”

“Oh well. I’ll see you when we’re ready to end it aye?”

“Aye. Take care Robert.”

“You too Ned. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I would rather lose Stannis or Renly!”

Robert grasped Ned in a hug once more and pulled him close. The next time he saw Ned it would be in the battlefield hopefully, with Rhaegar’s blood staining his hammer.


	8. Tywin I: Hear my Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. This one from Tywin. Please leave your thoughts.

Tywin Lannister smiled as he read The Burnt Wolf’s letter.

 

_To all houses great and small,_

_I have a blood debt I must repay,_

_There shall be no mercy for those that stand in my way,_

_The North Remembers,_

_Rickard Stark, The Burnt Lord._

It seemed Aery’s humiliation was nigh. He had waited and endured all Aerys had thrown at him for years now. Endured the humiliation to his own beautiful Joanna, endured the slight against Cersei and endured the humiliation of having his eldest son and heir stolen from him. But now it looked like he would be finally able to repay his debts to house Targaryen. It seemed Aerys had angered the wrong man in Rickard Stark. A brave man to be sure, but stupid too, stupid and easily manoeuvred in the game of thrones. He would let them fight it out and side with the winner.

If Rickard won and put a new king on the throne he would offer Cersei as a betrothal. If Aerys won, he would throw him from the throne himself and put Rhaegar on it, under the condition he take Cersei as wife. Either way, House Lannister’s legacy upon the Iron Throne would be assured.

The door opened and Kevan Lannister, his younger brother shuffled in. He was a dutiful man Kevan, everything a younger brother should be; much more able than that japing fool Gerion. “Tywin, A letter from Aerys has arrived.”

Tywin smiled. He had been expecting for it some time now. “And what does our gracious king want of us now?”

Kevan handed him the letter as he sat in the chair across from him.

 

_To Tywin Lannister,_

_I demand you call your banners at once and march against Rickard Stark’s barbarian heathens,_

_I hope you do delay for I have no need to remind you that your son is currently in my custody and as such any delay on your part will not go well for him._

_From Aerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Tywin’s jaw clenched as he read the letter. He dared to make demands of him? After all he had done? And to threaten his son! Tywin hoped that Rickard’s forces would win. He wanted to see Aery’s legacy crumble to ashes at his hands. With the letter still in his hands he walked over to the fire burning in the hearth and threw it in.

“Call the banners.” He told Kevan. “If it’s Lannister troops Aery’s wants, it’s Lannister troops he’ll get.”

Kevan rushed out the room to do his bidding. Oh yes, Tywin would enjoy watching the fall of house Targaryen, he would enjoy it very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we check in with Arthur Dayne.


	9. Arthur I: The Sword of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar receives the news of what's going on King's Landing.

Arthur ran his whetstone down the greatsword _Dawn_ , even though the blade did not require sharpening. It was a habit borne of the days before he wielded such a legendary sword, and it helped him to think. He was so lost in his thoughts he did not hear the horse’s arrival until it skidded to a stop in front of him.

He looked up into the grim, lined face of Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Lord Commander,” He greeted as he got to his feet.

“Arthur.” The Lord Commander replied. “Where is Rhaegar?”

Arthur turned and gestured to the tower behind him. It was called the Tower of Joy though for the life of him Arthur could not figure out why. It was a lonely, desolate place, surrounded by deserts and scrub, and falling into a state of ruin. “In there.”

“Is she with him?”

She, the northerner. The one who had made Rhaegar forget his vows to Elia Martell, one of the most beautiful and kind people Arthur ever knew. In his youth he had loved her and she him. He had wanted to marry her until her mother informed him that the second son of a banner men was not of high enough standing for her Elia.

“Aye.”

The White Bull nodded his head. “Come, we must speak with him. Where is Ser Oswell?”

“In there with him now.”

Together the two ascended the tower’s steps. They stepped through the doorway and into the shade of the tower, where they found Ser Oswell lying on the floor, sleeping. The Lord Commander strode forward and poked him in the stomach with his foot.

The man jumped awake and went to grab his sword, only stopping when he realised who it was. “You should be more careful you know. If I didn’t realise who you were I would have killed you! Lucky I was only pretending to sleep, aye?”

“Of course.” Ser Gerold replied drily. “I see the Dornish sun hasn’t made you lose your wit Oswell.”

“Pfft, takes more than some heat and sand to fell the bravest knight of the kingsguard.”

Arthur laughed at the japing fool that was his friend. It was good to laugh like this. He didn’t think he had laughed at anything other than Oswell ever since Harrenhall. Harrenhall…where all the smiles died. Curse you Rhaegar, curse you for putting me in this position.

As if he had heard his name, the man himself entered the room, ascending down the rickety staircase that led to the room where she lived.

“Ser Gerold? What are you doing here?”

“Maybe we should talk outside my prince.”

“Of course.”

Ser Arthur helped Ser Oswell to his feet and followed the Lord Commander and Rhaegar out the door. When they were a safe distance away from the tower Ser Gerod stopped.

“Why have you come here Ser Gerold?” Rhaegar asked.

The words that spilled out of Ser Gerold’s mouth chilled Arthur to the bone.

“Brandon Stark showed up at the Red Keep three weeks ago. It seemed he had somehow received word that you had kidnapped his sister. He rode in the gates with other sons of the north and demanded that you ‘come out and die’. Aerys had him thrown in prison and called his father to answer for his crimes. When his father came he had him arrested for treason and then attempted to burn him alive. Brandon Stark turned into a monster and freed them both, they got away. Llewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry were killed in their escape. Aerys then declared he wanted all the Stark’s heads and wrote to Jon Arryn to give him his ward’s, Eddard Starks.”

No, Arthur thought. Not him. Please not him. His mind was filled with thoughts of Ashara and a screaming Weirwood that moved in the wind.

“Jon Arryn refused and instead called his banners. The north has called theirs as well, and are marshalling at Moat Cailin. Your father needs you back to deal with the mess he made.”

“You said Brandon turned into a monster. What did you mean?” Rhaegar asked.

“He was half man, half wolf. A terror to look upon and a terror to fight. He killed two kingsguard, 37 guards of the garrison and 102 goldcloaks.”

Rhaegar smiled. “I was right. Hers shall be the song of Ice and Fire. The magic of the north with the magic of Valyria, two powerful bloodlines united at last.”

Inside Arthur seethed in anger. His kingdom was at war and all Rhaegar could think about was his prophecy!

“Your father has ordered you too return and put down the Starks.” Ser Gerold said.

Rhaegar turned and looked up at the window of the tower.

Arthur wanted to scream then. The Kingdom was at war! How many sons must be resigned to death all for this man’s obsession with prophecy? With a start Arthur realised it was madness, it might not have been as pronounced as his father’s but it was there nonetheless.

Rhaegar turned to him then. “Arthur,” He said, “My oldest and dearest friend. You once said you would aid me in deposing my father. When this war is done, will you stand by me?”

“I will.” Arthur said with a certainty that he wasn’t feeling on the inside.

“Ser Oswell, will you stand by me?”

“I will.”

“And you Ser Gerold? Will you stand by me against my father?”

“…I will…My King.”

“Good. Then we have much to do.”

Rhaegar turned to where their horses were saddled and began to prepare his horse.

“Here is what we will do. I will ride to King’s Landing to lead the armies’ against the Stark’s. Hopefully I can end it peacefully. You three will stay here to guard the girl.”

“Your grace, we are sworn to you! You need protection!”

“And I shall be fine. The girl is of utmost importance. She is preganant.”

Arthur stilled as he realised what Rhaegar had done.

“Rhaegar” He hissed, “You are married!”

Rhaegar looked at him and without even batting an eyelid nodded. “Yes. But I am a Targaryen, the rules are different for us.”

Disgust welled up in Arthur. Where was the boy he had grown up with? Where was the man who wanted to put an end to the madness?

“But your grace,” Ser Gerold said, “at least let me accompany you.”

“No.” Rhagar said. Ser Gerold went to argue further but Rhagar cut him off with an angry snap.

“You just swore fealty to me as your king. Now obey me as your king!”

Ser Gerold nodded and stepped back, although the look on his face suggested it left a very bitter taste in his mouth.

“I will put an end to this madness.” Rhaegar said as he swung astride his saddle. “Look after the girl.”

With that he turned the horse and spurred it on it’s way. He turned to see the girl in the doorway.

“Ser Arthur!” She called, “Where is Rhaegar going?”

He wanted to hurt her then, to make her cry for what she had done. TO make her regret ever allowing Rhaegar’s honeyed words to convice her to leave.

“He goes to war.” He replied.

“War? War with who?”

“The Starks.”

In the doorway the girl registered what he had said and slumped to the floor. A wail burst forth from her lips filling the air with a song of sadness that not even Rhaegar could achieve. As he watched her thoughts of Elia filled his mind and he wondered if this was how she felt when Rhaegar ran off with a child.


	10. Ashara I: The Misty Mountains Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more Nedshara. Hope you enjoy, tell me what you think.

The Mountains of the Moon were easily some of the most breathtakingly beautiful mountains Ashara had ever seen. This did not however, take away the pain of the biting winds that cut through to Ashara’s bones and led her to shivering in her furs most nights, wishing for the warmth of the man that often slept only feet away.

With her and Ned were two of Lord Arryn’s household guard, who were to ensure that the both of them reached the fingers safely and protect them from the clansmen who often frequented these mountains.

The three of them had been traveling for three weeks now, having left the Eyrie at the same time as Lord Arryn, who was marching on Gulltown. Robert Baratheon had gone with him too, though not before giving Ned another lecture on his opinion of ‘the dornish wench’ as he referred to her. Her thoughts soured as she thought of Robert Baratheon. He was a great fool and she worried for the state of the Stormlands under his rule.

She shivered again as the winds rose around them and held her hands out to the small campfire that Ned had made when they set up for the night. Why did it have to be so cold? The sun kissed lands of Dorne seemed a distant memory right now. She fondly remembered the days when she and Arthur used to splash and play in the Torentine. Days when the sun was so hot, you burnt your feet just running across the sand and into the cool water. She wondered where Arthur was now. Was he with his silver prince? Did he know where the girl was?

Warmth suddenly spread through her body as a pair of arms encircled her and pulled her into Ned’s warm embrace. She hummed in comfort as his warmth spread through her chilled limbs. He wrapped his heavy fur cloak around them both as he pulled her closer. Whether it had been his northern heritage or the fact that he had been living in these mountains since he was eight, Ned did not seem to be as affected by the cold.

She relished the closeness of Ned and burrowed deeper into his side. He smelled of pine and snow and smoke, a smell that she had come to cherish in the time they had come to know each other.

“Is it this cold in Winterfell?” She asked as he held her hands in his, transferring his warmth to her.

“No,” Ned replied “Hot water is constantly piped through the walls from underground springs making the entire castle warm. When your cold, you can go into the godswood and swim in the pool beneath the heart tree. It’s fed by an underground hot spring. In winter sometimes Brandon used to get…” Ned smiled sadly at whatever memory was running through his mind and then shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. “But that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I want to swim in that pool one day.” Ashara said hoping to take his mind off Brandon but it didn’t work.

“What did Brandon say that night?”

She doesn’t need to ask what night, there could only be one night that he could be speaking of. She remembered it as if it was yesterday.

“He asked me to dance with his younger brother.” She replied.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Why? Is something wrong?”

There was a pause as Ned stared up at the sky.

“My whole life I was living in Brandon’s shadow. He was the heir, the confident one, the outgoing one, the apple of my father’s eye. The handsome one. Everything was meant to go to him and even though it was wrong there were days when I wanted what he had. Everyone always preferred him to me and then you came along. You were the first person that looked at Brandon and passed him over for me. I always wondered if he promised you something more, an incentive to dance with me.”

“You mean did I…take him to bed?”

In the starlight she could see the blood rush to his face. “Yes.” He whispered back hoarsely.

“No, I never did. Why?”

“I now have everything that was meant to be Brandon’s. I’m just wondering if it was worth the cost.”

“Ned…you can’t think like that.”

“I know. It doesn’t change the fact I do though.”

“Ned if you think like that you’ll get nowhere.” She reached up and ran her finger along his jawline. “Ned, Brandon’s gone. It’s what’s happened. You have to move on, you have to be there for your family and your house. You need to step up.” She smiled then, “Brandon’s not there to ask the pretty girls to dance with you anymore. It’s all up to you now. Bear it like I know you can. I promised to stand by you and fully intend to keep that promise.”

Ned smiled bitterly as his eyes continued to rove the stars above them.

“Ned.” She said. “Look at me.”

The stubborn fool refused to move his eyes.

“Ned. Look at me.”

He still refused, so she pulled away from his embrace and grabbed his face in both hands, pulling it down until his soft grey eyes met her own. “Ned…I love you.”

She watched in amusement as he blushed. She leant forward and kissed him deeply, deeper than she had ever kissed him before. Tentatively she pushed out with her tounge, and was surprised to feel Ned’s lips melt away before her touch.

It was beautiful, his smell and warmth and feel invading her senses when a cough pulled her from her thoughts. Ned pulled away as though struck and inside she wanted to curse and smack whichever of the two guards had interrupted them. She turned around and glared daggers at the man standing on the edge of the clearing.

A very embarrassed man with the falcon of house Arryn stitched onto his tunic held up a brace of rabbits. “I got dinner M’lord.”

“Thank you Albar” Ashara managed to spit out. “I’m sure we will enjoy it very much”, though not as much as I was enjoying Ned’s warmth, she thought bitterly. Next to her Ned mumbled something along the same lines and it was obvious he was embarrassed about the whole affair.

That night instead of shivering in her own furs, she went over and lay down next to Ned. To her surprise he did not protest, instead he pulled her closer. For the first time since leaving the marginally warmer Eyrie she slept contentedly.


	11. Eddard II: The Misty Mountains Cold II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the journey through the mountains of the moon. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and savoured the feel of her beneath his hand. Her body seemed to melt beneath his touch, moulding itself to his touch and her lips seemed to be made especially for him. She had kissed him three times now. The first time was at Harrenhall. The second time on the ship in the bay of crabs. The third, last night, had filled him with a fire he didn’t know he had in him. Is this the wolf blood he wondered? Is this what Brandon felt like everyday?

He looked down at her sleeping face and smiled. Her mouth was opened slightly and her nose was scrunched up tightly. Her raven black hair framed her pretty face and he wondered what she saw him in.

Eddard Stark was plain, long faced and boring. Ashara Dayne was beautiful, funny and confident; in short everything that Ned was not. She stirred in her sleep and pushed her head closer into his chest, burrowing deeper into the furs they shared. Next to the campfire, Albar stood and shook out his limbs. The moon had reached it’s zenith, meaning it was Ned’s turn to take watch. He gently extracted himself from Ashara’s grasp and slipped out of the furs.

He wandered across to where Albar stood watch and loosened his sword in his scabbard.

“You see anything?” He asked the grizzled guard.

“No. The clansmen have been quiet lately. I’ll take a quick piss and then go to sleep.”

“Sure.”

Albar wandered away into the trees to make water and Eddard took his place, perched on the stone next to the campfire. He pulled his sword from his scabbard and rested it on his knees. He looked up and watched the stars. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound from the bushes in which Albar had disappeared.

“Albar?” He called out softly, getting to his feet and creeping forward. The lack of response chilled him to his bone. “Albar?” He called louder.

A shape flew out of the bushes and landed in front of him with a wet splat. He looked down to see Albar’s head, eyes glassy. His head snapped up and he yelled half in shock, half in warning.

A looming shape charged out of the bushes yelling a war cry. Ned brought his sword up and blocked the clansmen’s axe. Unexpectedly, the clansmen struck out with a fist that caught Ned on the side of the head, and he stumbled back, stars flashing in his vision.

Denys, the other Vale guardsman saved his life, seeming to appear from nowhere and pushing the clansman back. Ned shook his head and helped Denys push the man back, when two more clansmen emerged from the bushes. Ned’s superior weaponry and training soon proved and both of them were lying dead on the end of Ned’s blade. He went to help Denys when he was interrupted by a scream from behind him, a high pitched woman’s scream. Ashara! He thought with worry as he turned around to see a clansmen dragging her by her hair.

His blood rushed and he flew across the ground to slam into the clansman. They grappled on the floor and in the madness Ned had lost his sword. He managed to get on top of the man and punched him in the face. He felt the man’s nose crunch beneath the impact and blood began pouring from it. He didn’t stop though, and kept punching and punching and punching and punching until all that was left of the man’s face was a jumbled mess of blood and flesh and bone.

Panting with exertion he turned to Ashara. “Are you alright?” he asked. She stared at him with shock. Ned felt light headed suddenly and Ashara rushed over. “Ned, you’ve been stabbed!”

He looked down in bewilderment to see a vicious dirk sticking out of his side. “Oh,” He said, “So I have.”

That was the last he remembered before the darkness overtook him.

When he came to, days later, he found himself in a darkened room, a cool coth wiping his head. He groaned at the pain that blossomed in his side when he moved. “Ned?” A voice said and Ashara’s beautiful face filled his vision. “You’re awake!” She exclaimed as she hugged him tight. He groaned in discomfort as her arms struck where he had been stabbed. “Oh!” She said as she pulled back realising what she had done. “I’m so sorry!”

“Where… are we?”

“Coldwater. Denys has gone to get us a boat. He should be back soon.”

“Ashara you have to go home now.”

She smiled at him, amused. “Haven’t we already had this argument?”

He frowned at her, why did she have to insist on being so difficult all the time. “You are not coming with me.” He asserted. “I will not let you on the boat.”

“Oh really? And who’s going to stop me?”

“I will.”

She lifted her finger and placed it right where he had been stabbed, pushing down with the lightest pressure. He squirmed in discomfort.

“Exactly,” She said, “You’re not going to have much luck stopping me with that wound.”

“Ashara,” Ned growled at her, “I’m not letting you come with me any further.”

“Whatever Ned” She said dismissively as she got up to get him a cup of water. She held the cup to his lips and he drank deeply, quenching his parched throat.

“Why must you be so difficult all of the time?” He asked as he scowled at her.

She laughed at him. “I’m difficult? Your quite difficult yourself you know.”

He had to scare her away he decided, that was the only way she would go.

“Ashara it’s going to be dangerous crossing the bite at this-”

“Any more dangerous than wandering the mountains of the moon with you getting attacked by savage clansmen?”

“Ashara you-”

“Ned, I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again. I love you and I fully intend to stick by you until the end.”

Gods forgive me, Ned thought as he spoke. “Well I don’t love you.” He snapped back.

She looked at him her eyebrow raised in query and lent forward. Her lips met his again and his resistance crumbled beneath the touch of her soft lips. And then, as quick as they were there they were gone again and Ned opened his eyes to see an amused Ashara looking down at him.

“An admirable effort Lord Stark. You weren’t a very good liar when I first met you and you haven’t improved since. I’m coming with you and that’s the end of the story.”

With a note of finality she got up and left the room, leaving him to stew on the stubborn, annoying woman whose lips were as soft as the sky.


	12. Robert II: The Battle for Gulltown.

Robert Baratheon roared with laughter as he smashed his massive war hammer into the Grafton soldier’s chest. The man flew backwards, off the ramparts of the walls of Gulltown and into the streets below. Now this was life, Robert thought, this was when a man was either made or broken. Battle stripped away all the frivolities, all that was unnecessary and reduced to his base emotions. The greatest warriors were those who could master their base emotions and channel it into the fight.

Another man charged him on the narrow walkway and he attacked him with glee. His shield crumpled before his Warhammer and soon he was lying broken and bleeding beneath his feet.

“More!” Robert bellowed as he whirled his bloodied hammer above his head. “Bring me more!”

As if in answer, Marq Grafton himself stepped from the mass of defending troops, his sword drawn and shield raised defensively.

“TRAITOR!” Robert bellows as he pointed his hammer at him. “SUBMIT NOW OR DIE!”

Wordlessly, Marq settled into a defensive crouch and smacked his sword upon his shield. The challenge was clear. Robert laughed as he stepped forward swinging his massive hammer like a it weighed as much as a feather. The first of his hits smashed into Lord Grafton’s shield and cracked the wood. Grafton responded with a swing of his own, only to be rebuffed by Roberts own shield.

Robert swung again and hit Grafton’s shield again, cracking the shield in half. Grafton threw away his ruined shield and put both hands on his sword. A man, most probably one of Lord Grafton’s guards rushed forward to defend him, only to have his skull caved in by Robert’s hammer.

Robert roared with laughter again and swung his hammer back at Grafton, who attempted to catch it on his sword but failed miserably. Robert swung his hammer again and it crashed into Grafton’s chest. The man flew backwards, literally into the arms of his troops, gasping for air as his crumpled chest struggled to inhale properly.

Robert charged into the line of troops without pause, laying waste to the men with giant, sweeping swings of his hammer. Soon the line crumpled and Jon Arryn’s loyalist forces were well and truly on the verge of taking the city.

As the line pulled back Marq Grafton’s lifeless body was revealed, lying on the cobblestone streets. Robert slung his hammer over his back and picked up the lords lifeless body. He slung it over his shoulder and climbed the wall of the nearest house.

Once he was standing on the roof he held up the body for all the Grafton soldiers to see.

“Your lord is dead! Your walls are broken! Submit and we will be merciful! Fight on and I assure you I will send all of you to the seven hells myself!” Robert boomed.

Gradually but surely the soldiers stopped fighting and soon bent the knee to Jon Arryn, who while an old man, had acquitted himself bravely throughout the battle.

As he watched Jon, Robert’s thoughts turned to the rest of his foster family. He wondered if Ned had made it through the Mountains of the Moon yet. He wondered if he had bedded the Dornish wench yet.

Only Eddard Stark would refuse to bed a girl who clearly wanted him. Only Eddard Stark would be so honourably foolish. Only Eddard Stark.

“Robert!” Jon called out as he noticed him standing on the sidelines, “Come here!”

Robert made his way through the thronging masses of celebrating soldiers to stand by his foster father’s side.

“Well done,” Jon said as he tightly embraced him. “You’ve made me proud. They say you slew Marq Grafton yourself.”

“Aye. I caved in his chest with my war hammer.”

Jon sighed. “The fool wanted war, and it was war that he got. Thankfully his son has bent the knee without a fight. Regardless though Robert, I’ve already made the arrangemnts regarding your ship. You leave in the morning. See Captain Groleos over there. He’ll tell you all about it.”

Robert nodded and made his way to the captain Jon had pointed out. Soon he would be home, home to gather his army, and then he would have his chance to kill the man that stole the love of his life.


	13. Eddard III: Storm to Sisterton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned finally escapes the Eyrie. Is it a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire though?  
> Please comment and tell me what you think.

Lightning crashed, thunder boomed and the waves rose and fell around them. The rain poured down in sheets, chilling Eddard Stark to the bone. His long hair was plastered to his face, as he huddled beside Ashara in the bowels of the rickety old fishing sloop. It was a horrible storm and many times Eddard had feared their boat would be overwhelmed.

To the fisherman’s credit however he had managed to keep the boat afloat. He glanced down at Ashara who had her knees clenched to her chest, and her hands were clenched around the boats railing, so tightly that her knuckles were going white.

Another wave crashed over them, drenching them with salt water. The salt water had managed to get into his stab wound and it was beginning to itch like crazy.

The boat listed horribly and fell down a steep wave and his stomach felt like it was in his mouth. Ashara switched positions suddenly and clutched his arm with all the might of a woman who thought she was about to die.

Ned almost laughed at the irony of the situation. He was a wanted man in Westeros and he was about to die by drowning. It was especially amusing when he realised Aerys had tried to kill his father using fire.

He looked over at the fisherman who was struggling to reel in the sail. Behind him a giant wave loomed, easily 14 foot tall. Ned shouted out a warning but his cry was lost to the howling winds. The wave crashed over the boat, and the boat was under and all Ned was aware of was the water that filled his sense and the hands that clutched his arms. The boat managed to resurface but it was listing heavily. To Ned’s horror the fisherman was nowhere to be seen.

Ashara was still clutched to his arms and he noted the tears that streamed down his face. He went to stand, to take the Fisherman’s place at the tiller but Ashara tugged him back down.

“Ashara!” He screamed over the wind, “You have to let me go! I need to take the tiller!”

She opened her eyes and saw the fisherman was gone. Her eyes widened in horror and she stood with him as he went for the tiller. They stumbled forward and collapsed next to it. He grabbed the tiller and yanked it straight to stop the boat from listing. Something must have been wrong below the waterline though as the boat only shifted a little bit.

Ned looked out, hoping to see some lights but the waves had risen around the tiny craft and it was in danger of begin swamped again. He yanked on the tiller and managed to scale the wave before it broke its crest. It was when he was sitting on the top of the wave that he first saw the lights. They were far off, to his west and he swung the tiller hard and towards the distant lights.

He kissed Ashara on her forehead. “Don’t worry,” He whispered into her ear, “I can see lights, I’m heading for them now.”

She nodded wordlessly without even opening her eyes.

For the next few hours Ned and the small fishing boat battled their way through the raging seas. When they finally arrived in the port, their boat was listing heavily and to Ned’s horror he recognised where he was.

Sisterton.

These men would be just as likely to sell him to Aerys as they would be to return him home. This was not a safe place to be. He looked down at Ashara and realized she would be in danger too.

“Ashara,” He said as he pulled her upwards from where she lay, “Ashara, take the tiller.”

She nodded her eyes glassy as she stared off into the distance.

“Ashara,” he said as he shook her. “If anyone ask’s you’re a fishermans daughter ok? Your father died on the way here and you took over the boat.”

Ashara nodded and Ned’s heart almost broke. She looked so broken and such a far cry from the strong woman he knew she was.

They pulled up onto the sandy beach and Ned helped Ashara climb down from the wrecked boat. They made their way into the narrow streets of Sisterton and found a gloomy inn. Ned opened the door and was immediately assaulted by the smell of fish, sweat and ale.

He wandered in, Ashara following and walked over to the innkeeper.

“Two rooms and two bowls of whatever hot food you have.” Ned said as he laid some coins on the counter. The innkeeper looked at him suspiciously before picking the coins up and pocketing them. He pointed to a dark table in the corner and Ned went and sat down. Ashara sat down across from him, her face downcast.

Ned watched as the innkeeper wandered over to a man and exchanged words with him. The man nodded and got up and left. A pit of despair rose in Ned’s belly. What if he was going to get Lord Borrell?

The innkeeper appeared then clutching two steaming bowls of fish stew. It wasn’t nice, but it was hot and for that, Ned appreciated it all the more. He was halfway through his bowl when the guards stormed through the doorway. They made a beeline straight for him and Ashara and he knew he was finished.

“You’re coming with me.” The guard said as he hefted his sword. “Lord Borrell wants words with you.”

Ned sighed, resigned and got to his feet. It felt wrong to go like this. He just had to hope that the gods were watching him. Ned refused to believe that his gods had gotten him through that storm only for him to be taken back to Aerys at Lord Borrell’s wishes.

A hand filled his suddenly and Ashara’s broken visage, hovered behind him, attempting to hide form the glares of the soldiers.

“Who’s she?” He asked harshly.

“The daughter of the fisherman that got me here.” Ned replied in a tone that brooked no argument.

The guard nodded and poked him with his sword. “Come on, Lord Borrell’s waiting.”

The guards marched him out of the inn and up the stoney crags towards Breakwater castle. They entered the grand hall to see Lord Borrell sitting on a great stone seat, his son, Godric Borrell to one side, his Maester to the other.

When Ned entered the Lord burst out laughing. “The guards were right! You do have the Stark look. Since the eldest is dead, the youngest in Winterfell, I’d say you are Eddard Stark.”

Ned was sick of the game, he just wanted to go home. “Aye My Lord,” Ned said resignedly. “I am Eddard Stark, son of Rickard Stark.”

Lord Borrell frowned confused. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“What for? I’ve always been told I’m not very good at lying.”

Lord Borrell laughed again. “Very smart Lord Stark. Now tell me should I send you to Aerys or onto White Harbour? See my Maester here? He wants me to send you to Aerys to curry favour.”

Ned shrugged. “You can send me to Aerys if you want. Just pray my father never finds out I was here.”

Lord Borrell shifted in his seat and leant forward. “So the rumours are true? Your father is alive?”

“Alive? I’d heard he sent a letter to every Lord he could. Did you not receive one?”

“I did. I assumed it was a bluff.”

“No. My father is alive.”

“Oh well, alive or not I don’t care. I’m going to send you home Lord Stark. However if you lose you were never here. Am I clear?”

Ned nodded hardly able to believe his luck.

“There is a boat leaving for the north in the morning. Until then the inn is still open.”

Ned nodded and turned to Ashara who was still standing behind him. He hugged her forgetting for a moment where he was.

“Who is she?” Lord Borrell asked.

“The fisherman’s daughter. He perished in the storm and she got me here.”

Lord Borrell nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The guards took them back to the inn where they were staying. Ned took Ashara and walked up the staris to where the innkeeper said their rooms where. To Ned’s surprise Ashara didn’t even try and enter his room, she just went straight to hers.

He bid her goodnight and went to his own room and lay down. He couldn’t stop thinking of Ashara and how broken she had been ever since the storm. It seemed nearly dying had cracked something within the beautiful girl. He missed her warmth in his bed, a warmth he had grown accustomed to in the times they had shared furs while travelling the Mountains of the Moon.

He got to his feet and stumbled over to his door. He opened it and crept over to Ashara’s door. He knocked softly and put his ear to the door. He heard movement on the other side and soon Ashara was standing in front of him dressed only in a sleeping shift. She looked at him with those haunting purple eyes, and for once he saw no spark of laughter in them.

“Ned?” She asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He lifted his hands to her face and cradled it in his hands. Leaning forward he pressed his lips to hers and it seemed to awaken something within her. Her fingers curled into his chest as she returned his kiss.

He kissed her like she had kissed him in the Mountains of the moon and then he felt her hands tugging him to her. She pulled him to the bed and pushed him down onto it before sitting down on top of his legs. She continued to kiss him, the tounges warring with each other. Each time their skin connected he felt so…alive, alive like he hadn’t felt since before he had heard that Brandon was dead.

Ashara pulled back and she began to pull Ned’s shirt off.

“Ashara wait.” Ned said. She paused looking down at him. “Is this what you want?” He asked.

She smiled then, and the spark returned to her purple eyes. “Oh Ned,” She said. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”


	14. Rickard II: White Harbour I

The Burnt Lord watched as the ship that he had been smuggled out of King’s Landing in pulled up at the pier. The city was obviously preapring for war. The ships were all beached, and in th process of being cleaned and refitted. The sounds of steel stirking steel came from the many smithies within the city and all arriving ships were being thoroughly searched to find spies. Looking up, The Burnt Lord noticed the eagles that watched over them all. No doubt there handlers would be watched over safely in the Wolf’s Den or another secure location.

As he watched an eagle spotted something it didn’t like and swooped down to accost a man who had done something. Seconds later, the snowcloaks, the soldiers who patrolled and guarded the entire North, appeared from the crowds thronging the harbour and took him away for questioning.

The boat stopped moving and The Burnt Lord moved to where the gangplank was being lowered. Lord Wyman Manderly was waiting for him when he ascended from the ships deck.

“Lord Stark,” Wyman said as he stepped forward, his enormous girth filling the narrow pier. “It is an honour to host you, I offer my most sincere condolences for the loss of your son. Do not fear Lord Stark, the men of White Harbour will not forget what Aerys has done. We will not let this insult against the Starks stand.”

Rickard pulled back his hood and watched as Lord Manderly blanched and flinched away from his horrible visage.

“Do not worry Lord Manderly. My eldest son died in front of my own eyes and I cannot look at my own reflection without being reminded of his sacrifice. I will not let the insult stand even if I have to stand against Aerys alone.”

Lord Wyman nodded, still struck at the extent of his scars.

“Come Lord Manderly, report to me on the readiness of the eastern navy. I want to know everything.”

Lord Manderly nodded and fell into step beside him as they walked towards the Wolf’s Den, the military base of the East. House Stark held four castles and the Wolf’s Den was the first, and least, of them. The other castles were Mount Starpoint in the West and Moat Cailin in the Neck. The fourth was Winterfell itself, the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter.

“We have called all the ships back from patrol and have managed to consolidate 70 ships on this side of the Wolf’s Maw. Their crews are all present and prepared for an extended engagement and we are just finishing refitting the ones we were using for trade now. By next week the entire Eastern Fleet will be ready to sail. The Warg Legion of Starpoint have sent down five wargs, each of whom use a sea eagle as a companion and on top of that we have a warg of our own who bonded with a blue whale. We also have ten boats already out patrolling the bite, looking for incursions from the royal fleet.”

“Have you heard any word from my son Lord Manderly?”

“No your grace, we have given strict orders to all ships to keep an eye out for him, but there was a fierce storm not two nights ago that could very well have sunken his ship.”

Rickard snarled at the thought. “My son did not die at sea Lord Manderly and I suggest you never say so again.” Then in a lower voice he said “I have already lost one son, I have no intention of losing another. Put out every ship we have available until he’s found.”

“At once My Lord.”

Lord Manderly gestured to a guard and gave him the appropriate instructions. Rickard was distracted by the lithe, young man striding confidently towards them.

“Lord Rickard,” He boomed as he engulfed him in a hug, “I’ll say you’ve seen better days!”

The Burnt Lord cracked a smirk. “That I have Beron that I have.”

Beron Saltstark, Lord of Saltmaw and Admiral of the Eastern Navy released him from his hug and pulled back to get a better look at him. Beron was one of Brandon’s friends from the days of the Wolfpack. He had been raised on the ocean his entire life, and when the opportunity came for him to captain his own ship at 17 years of age he had taken it with both hands. He had quickly risen through the ranks due to his excellent skills and had been named Admiral of the Eastern navy only a year ago. He was 26 now and a powerful lord in his own right.

If anyone understood Brandon and what Rickard had lost it was the man standing in front of him now.

“Brandon was my dearest friend Lord Stark. I know I do not have to tell you how much his death saddens me.”

“Aye Beron. It saddens us all. Business now Beron though. I need to convene with all the lords at Moat Cailin. Can you organise a ship to take us through the Wolf’s Maw when my son Eddard gets here.”

Beron Saltstark bowed his head in deference and ran off to do his bidding. He had a good head on his shoulders Beron, and he would make a good Lord one day, perhaps even Grand Admiral of the Northern Navy.

Lord Manderly rushed forward, having finished given his instructions to his guard. Rickard turned to him. “Summon all the captains to the great hall of the Wolf’s Den. I will have words with them.”

Lord Manderly nodded and rushed away to do his bidding. Lord Rickard made his way alone to the Wolf’s Den, an imposing structure of stone and steel. It had everything required to house the Eastern arm of the north’s army. It had a shipyard, a stable, a warg vault, and it sat on the Eastern side of the White Knife, ensuring that none could pass deep into the North without the Stark’s knowing about it.

The Grand Hall was a modest one and extremely martial. The only decorations were two Stark banners hanging from the walls beside the hearth. The captains were already gathered by the time he got there. There was 57 of them so he assumed some were late and the others were out patrolling the bite.

“Captains.” He said as he ascended the platform and sat in the carved seat that acted as throne. The bowed their heads in deference and murmured replies. Many were transfixed by the state of his face and openly stared. Rickard didn’t care. Let them see, let them look upon my visage and see what Aerys has done. Let my face fill their nightmares so they don’t forget what we’re fighting for. They all stood watching expectantly waiting for him to give his orders.

“Captains of the ships of the East. Look at my face. See the scars and remember when you go into battle. This is what we are fighting against. If we lose this war this is the fate of us all. Aerys knows no mercy. As such, we shall know no mercy. Take every ship you see. Put their crews to the sword. Take no prisoners. Give them the same mercy Aerys was prepared to give me and my son. Am I clear?”

The men nodded.

“Good. I promised my son I would avenge him and I intend to see that promise through.”


	15. Eddard IV: White Harbour II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

They had left in the morning. The ship was a smuggler’s vessel belonging to a man named Tristan Stone. Thankfully the storm had ended and they were quickly on their way and streaming across the choppy waters of the bite. Ashara stood next to him, her arms clasped around his waist, her head resting on his shoulder. Last night seemed to have awoken her from the stupor that had consumed her since they had left the fingers.

Last night.

Ned felt funny thinking about it. It made him feel warm inside, and instead of just his lips tingling with a phantom memory, it was his entire body. It had been glorious. He had tried to apologise when they woke up and his face still hurt from where she had slapped him.

_Ned opened his eyes to see Ashara staring at him, smiling softly, her purple eyes twinkling. “Someone enjoyed last night…” She said with a smirk. To his shame he felt the blood rush to his face and somewhere else. He looked down in embarrassment and noted she was still naked, a fact that didn’t help the blood rushing around his body._

_“A-a-Ashara.” He managed to stammer out, “I’m so sorry!”_

_“Sorry,” She said with a frown, “Sorry for what?”_

_“For dishonouring you! I shouldn’t have-”_

_She sat up so quickly Ned was almost knocked off the bed. Her haunting eyes had lost their twinkle and were instead replaced with a cold fury. She raised her hand and slapped him hard._

_“What was that for!?” He asked as he clutched his burning cheek._

_“You dare to apologise as though what we did was wrong?!?”_

_“But it was!”_

_She slapped him again even harder this time. He clutched his face and glared at her. Why did she have to be so confusing? They spent a moment like that just glaring at each other before Ned averted his gaze._

_“I’m sorry if I upset you by apologising.” Ned said. He was met with silence and a Stoney glare. “If it means anything I did enjoy it.”_

_Her gaze softened then and she smiled at him. She had kissed him again then and before he knew it he was spending himself in her again much to her pleasure if her grunts and moans were anything to go by._

_Afterwards they had lain together, a tangled mess of wet hair and sticky limbs and worshiped each other’s bodies with their mouths. It had been a morning and night of absolute bliss and if Ned could spend the rest of his life in the cramped little room that stunk of fish and sweat and sex he would have done so._

The beautiful girl smiled at him now and for the life of him he could barely take his eyes off her.

“What are you thinking about now?” She asked.

Ned blushed. “Last night.” He whispered. Her smile grew wider then, to reveal her pearly white teeth. She grabbed him and pulled his ear down to her mouth. “There’s more where that came from.” She said. Her warm breath tickled his ear and left his blood running around his body again.

Ned and Ashara were interrupted by a cry from the crow’s nest at the top of the mast. “Sail to Starboard!”

The captain, a short, squat, black bearded man pulled his Myrish spyglass from his vest and held it too his eye. “It’s flying your father’s banners Lord Stark.” He informed them.

“Be cautious just in case it’s a ploy from the Targaryen’s.” Ned said as he checked the sword at his side. The captain held out his spyglass for Ned to take. “Do you recognise anyone?” He asked.

Ned held the looking glass to his eye and inspected the crew. None seemed familiar to him until he saw the man standing on the command deck, a looking glass held to his eye as well. As he watched the man lowered his glass and started waving at him, a great big smile etched onto his handsome face.

A smile split Ned’s face as he watched his friend make a fool of himself in front of his crew. He lowered the spyglass and raised his own hand in reply.

“Do you know them?” The captain asked.

“Know them. Aye. Me and Beron Saltstark are familiar.”

“That’s Beron Saltstark?!” The captain exclaimed staring at the distant ship with shock.

“Who’s Beron Saltstark?” Ashara asked with a frown. “Was he at Harrenhall?”

“Who’s Beron Saltstark?” The captain exclaimed. “You don’t know Beron Saltstark!! He’s only one of the greatest captain’s to have ever sailed the bite! He’s the lord of Saltmaw, the eastern mouth of the Wolf’s Maw and an Admiral of the Eastern Navy!”

“In short Ashara, a very impressive man, and a very close friend of the Starks.” Ned finished, noting the deepening furrow of her brow.

The ship cut through the water, until the two ships were across from each other.

“HO!” Beron called out in his booming voice. “Your father has mobilised the entire fleet to search for you!”

“Have you seen him?” Ned called back.

“Aye. I’ve seen the Burnt Lord. I’ll warn you though Ned, he’s changed. Harsher, less relaxed.”

Ned grimaced. “I’ll meet you in port! We’ll talk further there!”

Beron nodded and turned to his crew who immediately began preparing his boat to return to port. Ned turned to his own captain. “Take us to White Harbour.”

A few days later and they were pulling into White Harbour. His father was standing on the pier to greet him, along with Lord Manderly and Lord Seastark, who had somehow managed to beat them back. His father’s face was covered by the cowl of his cloak and he wore full plate armour that covered his entire body. He had heard his father was scarred but he couldn’t see anything that seemed out of place.

Next to him Ashara clutched his hand tightly. She was worried that his father would force the marriage to Catelyn Tully on him. She had confessed as much to him last night as they had lain together. He gave her hand a squeeze and kissed her forehead. He had promised her that he would do everything in his power to ensure that he could marry her.

When she had asked if he would disobey his father’s direct command. He stumbled over his words and shook his head. She had smiled sadly, kissed him on the head and promptly told him that “that was why I fell in love you.”

The captain lowered the gangplank and Ned descended to greet his father, Ashara following in his wake. “Father.” He said in greeting as he bowed his head. To his great surprise his father engulfed him in a bear hug and began sobbing into his shoulder. He patted his father on the back and warmly embraced him back.

After a while his father pulled away and stepped back. He reached up and pulled back his hood to reveal a horribly burned face. Next to him Ashara screamed in shock and behind him he heard the sound of one of the sailors retching.

He stared upon his visage and realised why Beron had called him The Burnt Lord.

“Did Brandon…suffer like this?” Ned asked as he gestured to his face.

His father’s face became filled with such sorrow, fury and anger that Ned was almost taken aback.

“Your brother sacrificed his life to save mine. His sacrifice shall not be forgotten. I have taken out a blood debt against Aerys. I intend to take from him what he took from me, and then some more.”

“My Lord.” Ashara said as she stepped forward. Rickard frowned at her. “Who is this Ned?”

“Father, this is Lady Ashara Dayne. This is the lady I wrote to you about before Brandon’s wedding.”

“What she stayed with you from Saltpans?” Rickard asked increduosly.

Ashara stirred. “I stayed by his side as I promised I would. I travelled with him to the Eyrie through the Mountains of the Moon and almost died attempting to cross the bite with him. Do not underestimate my love for your son. I fully intend to marry him once this war is over. Regardless, I have a favour to ask of you. My close friend, Princess Elia Martell, is innocent of any crimes committed against your family. I ask that you spare her life and that of her children.”

Ned looked at his father fearfully, but to his surprise saw amusement and admiration dancing in his father’s eyes. It was swiftly replaced by a cold gaze however as he watched and his heart sunk.

“Ah yes,” his father said. “I remember your dear friend. She was present the day I was burned. Every night I see her and a hundred others in my dreams. They are laughing and mocking as I was burned alive and my son was forced to watch. I have sworn to kill all who watched me burn that day. There will be no exception for your friend, or her incest riddled children!”

With that his father turned and stormed away, leaving him to console Ashara. She looked up at him fearfully. “Please don’t let any harm come to them.” She begged. “They are innocent in all this!”

“It’s alright,” He said as he stroked her hair. “I promise to do all I can to protect them.”


	16. Eddard V: The Bitter Burnt Lord

Beron turned to him, his normally jovial face, twisted in a grimace. “I did warn you.” He said as he watched Rickard Stark’s retreating figure. “What he’s been through has changed him.”

Ned nodded and continued to cradle Ashara in his arms. “Ashara.” He said. She looked up at him with her twinkling purple eyes and smiled sadly.

“What?” She asked.

“You’re going home now. Home to Starfall.”

Ashara rolled her eyes at him. “How many times are we going to have this argument?” She asked.

He rolled his eyes right back. “This time it’s not an argument alright. You’re going home. I will not let you stay here to be used by my father as some sort of pawn in his quest for vengeance.”

Ned turned to Beron. “Beron can you organise a ship to take Ashara home. I’m going to go and speak to my father.”

With that Ned turned and hurried down the pier after his father. He caught up with him in the streets of White Harbour, halfway to the Wolf’s Den. His father acknowledged him with a quick nod as he fell into step beside him but he otherwise ignored him until they entered the war room of the fortress.

“I received a letter from Hoster Tully when I arrived back. He wants to know if I will still honour the betrothal between the Starks and Tullys.” His father said as he watched him with his steely grey eyes.

“I know.” Ned replied his heart sinking in his chest. “He wrote to Jon Arryn too.”

“And?”

Ned pulled back the sleeve of his tunic and showed his father the Weirwood bracelet wrapped around his wrist. His father’s gaze softened and he stared at the bracelet sorrowfully. “Brandon wanted one of those desperately. I told him no. If I had just said yes maybe we he’d still be with us now.”

“Maybe.” Ned replied, “Though probably not. Brandon always had the wolf blood. What did you tell him though that made him decide to marry the Tully girl?”

His father glanced at him, guilt etched into the burnt lines of his face. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. First you wanted to marry Brandon to the Tully girl, then Lyanna to Robert, what were you planning? War or something?”

The guilt and surprise in his father’s eyes told him all he needed to know.

“You _were_ planning for war!” He exclaimed incredulously. “What madness led you to pursue that course of action?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Ned almost yelled, “It cost my brother his life!”

That stirred a reaction from his father. He flew from his seat and grabbed Ned by his throat. He threw him back against the wall hard, knocking his head so hard he saw stars.

“Listen here you insolent little _pup_ , only one man was responsible for Brandon’s death and he is sitting in King’s Landing. As I’ve always told you, summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, and share our strengths. We are in winter now, and I require your total support! Once this war is done you can condemn and hate me then, until then I expect you to fight for the pack as any dutiful son would, as Brandon would.”

He shoved him in the throat once more, before pulling back and resuming his seat at the head of the table. He sat down and gestured for Ned to take a seat. Ned did so, his throat still burning from where his father had grabbed him.

“Now.” His father began, “The Lords have convened at Moat Cailin. We will be travelling there with Beron on the morrow. The girl will not be coming with us, regardless of your bracelet.”

Ned went to protest but his father held up a hand.

“You do however have my permission to marry her once the war is done.”

Ned stopped. “What of Hoster Tully?”

“If he’s smart he’ll stay out of my way. If he’s not then I’ll show him that this Burnt Lord still has bite.”


	17. Rickard III: Meeting at the Moat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern Lords meet at Moat Cailin. Sorry I didn't upload yesterday I was just really tired.

Saltsmaw first appeared as a distant smudge upon the horizon but soon it could be clearly and it made Rickard swell with pride. It was an eternal reminder of the men who had held these lands for 8000 years, his ancestors, the Kings of Winter. From solid rock, a giant direwolf’s head had been carved. The river spilt from its maw on the evening tide, and on the morning tide rushed in. Fires burned in the direwolves eyes, providing a guiding light for all ships in the evening.

As they watched a howl cut through the air, made by the giant horns inside the wolves’ nostril, warning the defenders of the Saltsmaw of the ships approach. In the port to the side sat the ships that had been on the wrong side when the river was shut.

Next to him Ned stirred. “I’ll never cease to be amazed by that.”

“Me neither.” Rickard said as Beron strode up beside them.

“Nothing as imposing as a giant stone wolf’s head hey?” Beron said with a grin as he clapped Ned on the back.

Ned smiled. “You always knew how to make the imposing seem humorous.”

“I grew up in those halls and when my father dies I will rule those halls.” Beron laughed. “To me it’s nothing more than home!”

Beron’s father, Brandon Seastark, was an aged older man who was considered among Winterfell’s most loyal bannermen. Their house was founded by Torrhen Stark’s second son, Artos Stark, who upon receiving the Saltsmaw fortress, dubbed himself the Saltstark. His family took the name and ever since carried it as theirs, along with the title, Lord of Saltsmaw.

As they passed beneath the shadow of the salty wolf’s jaws he looked up to see the numerous murder holes covering the narrow entrance. A man moved up next to Beron.

“My lord, I should take control from here.” He said. Beron nodded and handed the tiller to him. He took it and began guiding the craft through the twisting turning river. Perhaps the river’s greatest defence was its natural geography. Many a ship had come undone attempting to get through its narrow, twisting halls. Truth be told, very few knew the secret of travelling the hallowed halls of the Wolf’s Maw. Those men, one of who was steering the boat now, were known as the pilots, and were raised from birth travelling the river. Each pilot took only one apprentice in his entire life, and when the pilot died, his apprentice would take his place. The apprentices were handpicked by the Lords of the Maw and met with the lord of Winterfell himself before he could begin. Rickard remembered turning many a boy down that he didn’t feel would be able to make it, but for every five that failed, one would pass.

The darkness enveloped the ship, only being cut by the lanterns that hung form stern and prow. The stone walls rushed past with dizzying speed. Rickard had travelled this river more times than he cared to remember, but each time he was still left with a pounding heart at the speed of the river and the fearlessness of the men who rode it.

Beron turned to him. “It’s best you get some shut eye. It’s a long ride to the Wolf’s Eye.”

Rickard nodded and went and lay down at the prow of the ship, wrapping himself in the grey cloak he had come to wear constantly ever since he was burned.

Hours later he was roughly shaken away by a hand and opened his eyes to see Beron standing over him.

“We’re almost there,” He said “I didn’t want you to miss the sight.”

Rickard nodded and got to his feet. Ned was already standing on the prow, eyes searching the darkness in front of the boat. He moved to stand beside him and searched the area around him, looking for the light that betrayed the presence of the eye.

“How did the girl take what I said?” He asked him. Ned glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Ashara was happy and upset.” He replied “It was confusing.”

“She’s a woman. Their meant to be. Gods, sometimes your mother left my head spinning in circles.”

Ned smiled. “There it is” He said as he pointed out into the darkness. Rickard’s gaze followed the direction his arm was pointing and caught the light as well. A single shaft of light pierced the darkness and soon the sounds of rushing waters filled his ears.

The pilot called out and the rowers took their positions. They began to back oar furiously, slowing the boat drastically. The eye first appeared as a line of jagged rocks, stretching out of the water, but soon revealed itself to be a tear in the fabric of the world. The waters of the river fell into the hole and disappeared into its black void. None who had ever entered it’s black depths had ever returned and many considered it to be the edge of the world.

As the ship glided by Rickard turned his gaze to the other notable thing of interest in the chamber. It was a small port where five ships were currently docked, and behind them, the giant stone doors that led into the ancient fortress that was Moat Cailin. Their boat pulled into the docks and the men manning the structure quickly lashed the boat to the moorings, ensuring the boat wouldn’t catch the current and drift into the Wolf’s Eye.

The gangplank was lowered and he descended from the boat and onto the dock. With Ned and Beron following, and accompanied by four guards, they made their way through the stone doors, up the twisting corridors and before the doors of the great hall of Moat Cailin, where the majority of the Lords of the North were assembled. Rickard turned to Ned and Beron. “Are you two ready?” He asked.

Both nodded. Rickard pulled up the hood of his cloak, concealing his burnt features and turned to the guards holding the door. “Open it.”

The doors swung open and Rickard Stark, The Burnt Lord, stepped forward into the hall. Immediately he was assaulted by a cacophony of shouting and yelling. With a straight back, his son on his right, and one of his most trusted advisors on his left, he began the long walk to the carven seat that acted as the seat of Moat Cailin. As the lords noticed his presence the shouting and yelling dwindled away until it was non-existent. A hundred pairs of eyes followed The Burnt Lord’s progress from door to seat.

Rickard reached the seat and paused. He turned around and stopped. Slowly he reached up and pulled back his hood, to reveal the horrible visage of The Burnt Lord, in all its terrible glory. He was greeted with utter silence, which he supposed was better than Lady Dayne’s reaction.

“Lords of the North,” He began, “Look upon the face of your burned liege and know what we are fighting for!”

With that he sat down in the carven throne. Ned took the seat to his right and Beron, the seat to his left.

“I call this meeting to order.” He said with a wave of his hand and yet the shouting match did not resume. The Lords were still staring at him with horror etched into the lines of their faces. Poor Theon Redstark, the 12 year old boy lord of Newport, a town on the Stoney Shore, looked like he was about to throw up whatever he had for breakfast. Rickard sighed. Clearly an explanation was in order.

“My Lords, by now you will have no doubt noticed my new look. It was given to me by Aerys at the cost of my eldest son, a debt I fully intend to repay. Now can we get into the business of preparing for war?”

Lord Rodrick Ryswell got to his feet. “Lord Stark, the rumours coming from the south are most interesting. They say your son…skinchanged into a wolf and freed you. Is it true?”

“Yes, Brandon skinchanged. How I do not know, but he did do it. He killed 37 guards, 102 goldcloaks and two sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, before escaping with me. They say they are still looking for him in fleabottom now.”

This declaration was met with silence, until finally a small crannogman stirred. “My Lord,” He said as he stepped forward, “It is known that the Crannogmen are no strangers to the magic of the old gods and many of our own are greenseers and wargs, so I must ask, has the White Wolf risen?”

Rickard scowled. This was perhaps going to be the biggest obstacle to war with Aerys. Rickard stood to his feet.

“No.” Rickard replied. This created the uproar that he had been absent earlier. “We cant go to war without the White Wolf!” One Lord cried, “The gods won’t be with us!”

Rickard breathed in through his burnt nose and closed his eyes. This was standing in the way of his vengeance. “ENOUGH!” He roared. The hall quieted immediately.

“We all know the story of what Brandon Snow did after Torrhen Stark bent the knee so I won’t bore you all with details you already know. We all know of Brandon’s visions as he wrote them down in the Book of the Bastard, a book which house Stark has protected and kept hidden for 283 years now. The White Wolf was Brandon’s promised saviour of the North, he would give the Northman what they so desperately wanted, their independence. Let me make something abundantly clear. This is now war for independence, this is a war of vengeance.” Rickard paused. “I am fighting this for my son, my eldest son, who many of you knew and loved and who was killed by Aerys! The White Wolf will delvier us from the south. I will deliver us from the dragon’s jaws! Enough is enough I say! Three times we have been insulted by Targaryen kings! The first was Baelor the fucking blessed, the second was Aegon the Oath breaker and now Aerys the mad! I will not suffer under dragons any longer! I will throw Aerys from his ill-gotten throne and put someone on it who I actually respect and like!”

Rickard breathed in, struggling to keep a lid on his emotions. Next to him his son stood.

“My Lords,” He called, “I am as wary of fighting in the south as any of you, but we cannot afford to not fight. Aerys has called for the heads of me, my younger brother and my father. My sister has been taken by Rhaegar and my elder brother has been killed by Aerys. If we do not march south then the south will march on us. If there has ever been a time to march south it is now. We have allies in Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon. Tywin Lannister will not march against us, and hopefully Hoster Tully will march with us.”

“And what of the Tully girl?” Rodrick Ryswell called out. Rickard went to answer but Ned stopped him with a glare.

“What of her?” Ned asked the lord.

“Will she be marrying you now that Brandon’s dead?”

“No.” Ned replied. “I have already been betrothed before the old gods.” He held up his arm to reveal the weirwood bracelet and Rickard saw that many a lord smiled happily, while just as many frowned in disappointment.

“And who is the girl you are betrothed to?” Lord Ryswell called.

“Oh who cares!” The Greatjon Umber called out, “He’s found a girl for himself. Congratulations Ned. We’ve got a war to fight and some heads to smash!”

“Thank you Lord Umber,” Ned said with a bow of his head and a gracious smile, “However to answer your question Lord Ryswell, I am betrothed to Lady Ashara of house Dayne.”

“So the North loses one southern lady only to gain another!” Lord Ryswell mocked.

Rickard had enough of the presumptuous fool, always trying to weasel his daughter into the role of the next lady of Winterfell. He got to his feet and stormed down to where lord Ryswell was seated. He grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him close.

“Listen here,” He snarled into his ear, “If you don’t want part in this war go home. Go home and once I’m done Aerys I’ll come back, tear your keep to the ground, hang you for an oath breaker, murder your sons and marry your daughters into the south! Got it?”

Lord Ryswell swallowed audibly and nodded.

“So what’s your choice?” Rickard asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll march south.” Lord Ryswell whispered. Rickard Stark bared his teeth and smiled.

“Good.”

Behind him he heard the Greatjon burst into laughter. “Ha!” He called, “It seem this Burnt Lord still has bite left in him! Now can we plan for war?!”

Rickard turned around and smiled at the large lord.

“At once. I have a blood debt to repay.”


	18. Ashara II: The Pit of Vipers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright concerning Northern Independence, what happened after Torrhen bent the knee the Old Gods gave Brandon Snow a series of visions which he wrote down in a book the north calls The Book of the Bastard. In it, it supposedly speaks of the man who is promised to save the north, The White Wolf (Yes the man is Jon Snow in this story). The NOrth dosent want to declare independence without him because they fear the old gods wont be with them. Rickard came up with a way of getting around this by still staying true to the Iron Throne, but not the dragons. This is why they have not declared independence yet, because they are waiting for their savior, the White Wolf. So there will be no independent north in this story, but it will come in the next part I've planned.

Ashara Dayne was sick of boats. She was sick of the endless expanse of Blue Ocean, sick of the way the boat rocked and the smell of salt. As such she was almost glad when the stench of King’s Landing filled her nostrils. Almost. If she had of listened to Ned she would have returned to Starfall, but instead she had boarded a ship for King’s Landing. She still remembered their departure and the mixed bag of emotions it had left within her.

_She heard a light knocking at her door and opened it to reveal her Ned standing there. “Ned!” She exclaimed with a smile as she enveloped him in a hug._

_“Ashara.” Ned greeted her as he returned her hug warmly._

_She hadn’t seen Ned in hours, ever since he had wandered off with his father. She had been left standing on the pier like an idiot until Lord Manderly invited her to freshen up in his castle. He was a jovial and genial man, often acting the fool, but she sensed it was an act, a cover for a very intelligent and cunning man that lay beneath the many rolls of fat that surrounded him._

_He had escorted her to a room and then left her to her own devices. She had rested and bathed but soon she was bored and staring at the walls. But now Ned was here._

_“What did your father say?” She asked, half dreading the answer._

_Ned smiled at her. “He said I could marry you.”_

_Ashara’s heart soared. “What of Catelyn Tully?”_

_Ned laughed. “My father said Hoster Tully will get out of his way or he’ll show him that ‘The Burnt Lord’ still has bite.”_

_“When will we marry?” She asked him._

_“Once the war is done.” He said with a grin._

_Her heart dropped in her chest. “Once the war is done?”_

_His smile faltered. “Yes. I’ll come to Starfall myself and we can marry in the Godswood there.”_

_She frowned now. “Why can’t I marry you know?”_

_Ned sighed at her. “Ashara you’re going home. If we lose the war then no one will be any wiser and you can marry who you wish.”_

_“But I want to marry you.”_

_“I know. Ashara remember when you promised me to stay by my side and you did?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I promise to win the war, and then to come to Starfall and marry you.”_

He had promised her and she would hold him to his promise. Even if she would not hold herself to the promises she had made him. She had promised to go home to Starfall and wait out the war, but Elia needed her.

She descended from the boat that had carried her to King’s Landing and begun the trek up the shit stained streets to the Red Keep. Elia had been on Dragonstone until recently when she had been recalled to court by Aerys.

She entered through the red gates, that only recently had seen the death of the northern lords that had accompanied Rickard and Brandon Stark respectively. Soon she entered Elia’s chambers within the Maidenvault. Elia was sitting there, nursing Aegon with one arm and playing with Rhaenys with the other.

“Hello Elia!” She said casually as she strolled over to the wine.

“Ashara?!” Elia hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to serve you My Lady. I _am_ your handmaiden.”

“But what about your suitor?” She asked.

“He has promised to marry me still.”

“Really? And he let you come back here?”

“Not exactly. I mean he did promise to marry me, but he told me to go home to Starfall. I agreed and instead came here.”

“What for? It’s war Ashara! You’d be safer in Starfall!”

“I know. My princess needed me though.”

Elia sighed. “He must really love you if he let you go. I thought you were going to be used as a hostage!”

“From what I understand that is what his father wanted to do, but he refused.”

“So it’s true then?”

“What’s true?”

“His father lives?”

“Lives? Yes, I guess you could say that. He seems to be consumed by thoughts of…vengeance though.”

Ashara turned to Elia then. “Elia…tell me true…on the day Rickard Stark was burned did you laugh at him?”

Elia looked horrified. “NO!” She exclaimed. “The only one who was laughing was the king. Everyone else was dead silent, I think poor Ser Jamie even wet his breeches!”

Ashara sighed. “He has sworn to kill you and your children.”

Elia’s pretty face twisted into a snarl. “And what? Put his daughter in my place? Make his daughter Rhaegar’s wife?”

Ashara shook her head. “I don’t think so. When I left all he was talking about was repaying his blood debt.”

“His blood debt?”

“Yes. He seems to think he owes Aerys something.”

Elia smirked then. “Oh but he does.”

“He does? What could he possibly owe him?”

“Why what Aerys took from him. His eldest son. He owes him the life of his eldest son.”

“That means…”

“He plans to kill Rhaegar…” Elia finished with a triumphant grin. “And then Aegon shall be king.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ashara had been serving Elia for a month now and reports had arrived that the northern vanguard had entered the Riverlands and was marching to meet Jon Arryn at the Crossroads inn, while in the Stormlands, Robert had been mustering his banners and crushing dissenting lords. On the particular morning that they received the news of his march form Storm’s End, Ashara had been sitting with Elia when she had suddenly felt the urge to throw up. She had rushed to the chamber pot and disgorged that morning’s breakfast. Elia had watched her strangely before dismissing everyone else from the room.

“Ashara,” She asked once everyone had left the room, “When was the last time you bled?”

Ashara’s heart dropped as she considered the response. Her silence told Elia all she needed to know apparently.

“Just as I thought.” Elia said. “Is he the father?”

Ashara felt tears spring to eyes. She was going to have a child. She was going to have Ned’s child! He had better marry her now! She nodded at Elia. “He is the father.” She whispered.


	19. Eddard VI: Marching South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please Comment and tell me what you think.

Ned Stark watched as his troops, the northern vanguard, marched down the causeway of the neck and into the Riverland’s. The vanguard, numbering 20,000 men, was made up of 12,000 light cavalry, who constantly guarded the moat, 5000 of the Winter Wolves and the 3000 soldiers of Mount Starpoint, the beating heart of the northern army.

The 3000 soldiers of Mount Starpoint, called the Weirwood Warriors, were the most elite soldiers in all of the North, if not Westeros. They were men chosen by the Green men at a young age. They were taken at five and spent their entire lives dedicated to becoming the greatest fighters the north could field. All of them were accomplished with the bow, lance and sword, as well as being skilled wargs. Indeed, part of the training was spent in the Wolfswood, where boys of 10 would be left and told not to return until they had warged with a wolf. The most impressive of all of the Winter Wolves however was their Lord Commander, a man by the name of Rodrick Walton. He was an incredibly tall and incredibly gaunt man. He had black hair, and steely grey eyes that seemed to stare right through a man. He wore steel armour, inlaid with bronze, and a Weirwood mask, that had Weirwood sap dripping out of its eyes, giving the appearance of a crying face. In many ways the mask reminded Ned of the heart tree in Winterfell. He had a Weirwood bow, slung over his back along with a quiver of arrows, and resting at his side was the Sword of Starpoint.

The sword of Starpoint was a blade that was held by the Lord Commander of the Winter Wolves, and it was made of the same metal as Arthur Dayne’s greatsword, Dawn; that being Starsteel. The blades name was Harbinger, and it had a past that was as storied as Ice. It was first forged and wielded by the first Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, Brandon Snow, a man whose moniker was Bloody Brandon the Blessed. From then it had been passed from Lord Commander to Lord Commander until it rested by Rodrick’s side today.

Rodrick Walton had warged with two wolves, an eagle and he rode a tremendous White Hart. He rode beside Ned now, his White Hart dutifully plodding along, and his eyes constantly scanning the tree line. The man was a true warrior, and one that Ned rightfully feared. The soldiers of Starpoint, though untested in real battle, were without a doubt fearsome and fearless fighters, rivalling even the Unsullied soldiers of Astapor in their unwavering devotion to their duty.

As Ned watched a giant golden eagle soared down from the clouds and alighted on Rodrick Walton’s shoulder.

“The road is clear as far south as the crossroads inn. Jon Arryn has assembled his forces there.” Rodrick said, as he scratched the eagle under the chin. Ned nodded.

“How many more days of marching do you reckon we’ve got ahead of us?” Ned asked the grizzled man. Rodrick shrugged.

“I don’t know. I haven’t travelled these lands before, but from what I could see I’ll say maybe 2 and half weeks.”

Ned nodded. “Are than any troop movements away from the Kingsroad?”

“Aye. Many of the minor lords are summoning their troops. I saw troops at Castle Darry, the Twins, Seaguard and Fairmarket.”

Ned sighed. It seemed Hoster Tully was set on his daughter becoming the next Lady of Winterfell and was refusing to move until he was assured of such a fact.

“My Lord,” Rodrick said. “Do you have a plan for what happens if Hoster Tully declares for the Targaryens?”

“No.” Ned sighed. “I don’t want to fight the man, but I can’t marry his daughter now that I have been betrothed to another.”

“If he values the lives of his family hopefully he will stand by you.”

Ned glanced at the old soldier out of the corner of his eye. He was scowling yet still watching the treeline. “I don’t want children or women murdered for this war Rodrick. It’s dishonourable.”

Rodrick Walton turned to him, his face one of query. “Tell me Lord Stark, what is the greater dishonour? To kill a man to save a battle, or to fight the battle to save the man?”

“What?” Ned said, confused.

“Honour is all well and true in Summer Lord Stark, but we are in winter now and we have no place for honour beyond what the old god’s demand of us.”

Ned frowned. “Well then why didn’t you just kill me to save this battle?”

“I swore an oath to the Stark in Winterfell. I swore no oath to the Targaryen in King’s Landing. I served your Grandfather and father dutifully Lord Stark. When the time comes I shall serve you too.”

“So what of Elia Martell and her children? Do you think my father is justified in calling for their heads?”

“There is no greater dishonour than needless killing Lord Stark. Your father is still getting over the death of his eldest son. I do not think he will order their deaths when the time comes. As much as your father wants to forget the man he was, you cannot shed your nature like you can clothes. Your father was an honourable man, though perhaps not as god-fearing as I or others would have liked. When the time comes he will do the honourable thing.”

“Tell me Rodrick, do you think we will win this war without the White Wolf?”

Rodrick shifted on the back of the White Hart. “I never wanted to be here without the White Wolf by my side, but your father forced all of our hands. However I can understand your father’s reasoning. To go to war with the dragons is not to declare independence. That will be our only saving grace if the gods are truly watching.”

The two men fell into silence after that, Ned contemplating Rodrick’s words and watching the countryside slip by. In the distance he saw a Weirwood growing in the forest.

“They say you have a man who has the greensight. Is it true?” Ned asked.

“It is.” Rodrick replied.

“Has he seen anything?”

“I don’t know. I prefer not to know.”

“Why? Surely knowledge can help us win.”

“Not all knowledge. If I knew what my greenseer knew I could become comfortable in the superiority of my own knowledge and make a mistake that dooms us all. Lets say for example that my greenseer tells me there will be a battle tomorrow and I will win. As such, I go to sleep confident in my abilty to win and don’t plan properly. As such I lose. Do you understand why some knowledge is dangerous now?”

Ned nodded. In the distance the sun was beginning to set. He stopped his horse and turned to the host following him. “We’ll set up camp here for the night.” He told the men following him and they turned to relay it to the rest of his forces. “In the morn, we double time the march until we reach the crossroads.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun was shining high in the sky when they finally reached the Crossroads Inn. Jon Arryn was there with Bronze Yohn Royce to greet him and Rodrick as they entered the encampment.

“Ned!” Jon called as he walked across and embraced him in a hug. “How was your trip through the Mountains of the Moon?”

“Rough!” Ned replied. “I got stabbed by a clansmen!”

Jon smiled. “They’re getting bold. When this war is done I might ride into the mountains and remind them of why we hold the Vale! Now who’s this old soul with you?”

Ned turned to Rodrick who had dismounted his White Hart and was watching them with his steely grey eyes.

“Jon meet Rodrick Walton, Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, Rodrick meet Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and protector of the Vale.”

“Lord Arryn.” Rodrick said as he inclined his head.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jon replied. With that he turned back to Ned. “I’ve already made the arrangements of our trip to meet with Hoster Tully. I’ll have an escort of 50 men, I suggest you take the same. I don’t think we will, but it’s possible we might need to fight our way out of it if you insist on marrying Lady Dayne.”

Rodrick stepped forward and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “It is not a choice Lord Arryn,” He spat, “It has been ordained by the gods. To refuse to marry her now would be to bring ruin and shame upon his house.”

Jon Arryn smiled. “But of course. I assure you I meant no offense Lord Rodrick. I was only stating the reality of our situation.”

Rodrick harrumphed and stepped back yet refused to take his hand off his sword.

“It’s alright Rodrick,” Ned said, “Jon is just ignorant of our customs. He meant no offense. Can you gather 50 of the Winter Wolves, and prepare them for an immediate departure.”

“Immediate?” Jon said. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest first?”

“I’ll rest once the war is done,” Ned said as he remounted his horse. “Rodrick, you’re in charge here until I return.”


	20. Rickard IV: Marching South II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter explaining what The Burnt Lord is doing. Very short chapter.

Rickard Stark swelled with a savage sense of pride as he watched the northern army march into the depths of Moat Cailin. They were marching into the vast underground cave system that criss-crossed the entire continent. The idea to use it as a means of transportation was first thought up of by Cregan Stark, the old man of the north. He had gotten the idea from the stories of the brother Kings-Beyond-The-Wall, Gendel and Gorne, who used an underground system of caves to totally bypass the defences of the wall. He had spent much of his tenure as Lord of Winterfell mapping out the underground caves using wargs. Many a warg had been driven mad losing their animals in the intricate cave system, but at the end of it the North had access to pretty much the entirety of Westeros. The mapped tunnels stretched as far south as the Kingswood and deep into the Western hills. The Vale of Arryn had no mapped tunnels however as the rocky and mountainous terrain made it treacherous for the tunnels.

He was leading the main force of the Northern Army, a force that was 50,000 strong. He had left 40,000 troops back in the North, sent the vanguard, 20,000 strong to the Crossroads Inn and sent the other 30,000 men south with Beron Seastark. If all went to plan, Rhaegar would find himself trapped between three armies.

It would be a glorious slaughter, one for the ages to remember. Then, once Rhaegar was in his clutches he would finally repay his debt to Aerys, and leave him a permanent reminder of exactly who he had provoked. For what was a 300 year old dragon to a direwolf of 8000 years? A direwolf that has outlasted the greatest empires of Essos and outlasted the famed dragons of the dragonlords of Valyria? A reckoning was coming for those that had dared to insult him, and the insult had been most grave and cost him his eldest son. Next to him his greatest Lords and generals moved into formation beside him. Together they spurred their horses forward and descended into the underground, ready for conflict with any who stood in The Burnt Lord’s way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any idea's to where Rickard is heading with his 60,000 men?


	21. Ashara III: Starfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a few weeks after the other ones. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

The sand squished under Ashara’s feet as she walked from the dock to the gates of Starfall. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge of Elia’s dismissal. After Elia had found out she was pregnant with Ned’s baby she had dismissed her immediately, ordering her to return to Starfall. She had protested heavily, but Elia hadn’t budged an inch, even going to assert her authority as a princess of the realm to reinforce her position.

Ashara had left, but her anger at Elia was still burning fiercly. Elia was one of her dearest friends and she was totally oblivious to the threats that had surrounded her. She was convinced that at the end of the madness she would be able to put Aegon on the throne. She was convinced that she could treat with The Burnt Lord, at no point had she considered that The Burnt Lord was unlike any other enemy house Targaryen had faced before. He had no interest in their throne, he only had interest in paying back the debts he felt he owed House Targaryen; and if what Ned said was true he had the power to do it too.

She reached the great gates of Starfall and they were opened by a Dayne guardsman. “Lady Ashara?” He said, “What are you doing here?”

Ashara smiled at the guard. “May I enter?”

The guard, suitably chastised, moved out of her way and allowed her to enter. “Is my family here?” She asked as she walked by.

“Your eldest brother and father were called to Nightsong, along with most of the other Dornish bannermen. Your sister is here and your other brother rode in only this morning.”

Ashara frowned. “My other brother? You mean Arthur?”

“Yes My Lady. He rode in alone this morning. He’s resting at the moment.”

“Take me to him.”

“He said he wasn’t to be disturbed.”

Ashara turned around and glared at the man. “I’ll think he’ll be disturbed for me. Now take me to him.”

The man nodded quickly and walked away in the direction of the palestone tower, were Arthur’s old chambers were. She followed in his wake, and was soon standing outside Arthur’s old chambers. The man nodded at the door. “He’s in there.”

Ashara nodded. “Thank you.”

The man seemed to take it as a dismissal and rushed down the corridor. It seemed Arthur’s reputation preceded him in everything he did. She tried the handle and found it had been locked. She knocked loudly. Something hit the door.

“I said I wasn’t to be disturbed” A muffled voice called out. It sounded grumpy. “Arthur!” She called. “You better open this door right now or I’ll have the guards smash it down!”

“Ashara!” The muffled voice exclaimed and then there was a lot of movement behind the door. After a few moments the door swung open to reveal her brother. His hair was dishevelled

“What are you doing here?” He asked. “Aren’t you meant to be with Elia?”

Ashara laughed. “So you _do_ remember Elia Targaryen.” She stressed Elia’s last name hoping to get a reaction from him and he didn’t disappoint.

“What are you saying?” He snarled as his features twisted in a snarl. She smiled at him sweetly, the picture of innocence.

“Your snarl might scare soldiers Arthur, but it doesn’t scare me.”

This only made Arthur’s scowl deepen. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Elia dismissed me.” She replied simply. “Now what are you doing here? Aren’t you meant to be with your prince?” She scoffed.

“Dismissed you! What did she dismiss you for?”

“I’ve answered your question, now it’s time for you to answer one of mine.”

Arthur shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. His hand drifted to his hair and he began to run his hands through his hair, a habit he had picked up from a young age Ashara knew, a habit he displayed when he was nervous.

“Arthur?” She prompted him.

He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “I’ve come to get a midwife.”

A midwife? What would Arthur need a midwife for? Oh. Then it hit her, and it her like a punch to the stomach. She struggled to breathe as she realised the full implications of what Arthur had said. Anger settled in her stomach. She clenched her jaw. Rhaegar had gotten the girl pregnant. Rhaegar had gotten Ned’s sister pregnant! She looked at Arthur who was looking at her sheepishly and suddenly she just wanted to hit him. So hit him she did. It was a hard hit too, and it left him sprawled on the floor, his cheek glowing red.

“I guess I deserved that…” He whispered.

“Deserved that!” She screamed as she kicked him. “You loved Elia Martell once! Once upon a time you were going to marry her! Now you’ve stood by as she was publicly spurned and now you’re helping a…a…a mad man destroy what is left of their marriage!”

She looked upon his white cloak with disgust. She reached down and tried yanking it off his shoulders. “Take it off! Take it off!” She screeched, “You’re not worthy to wear it!”

“Ashara!” Arthur yelled as he struggled to get off the floor while she pummelled him with slaps, kicks and punches. “Stop it!” He scrambled backwards and into the room, away from the furious Ashara who picked up a blood orange and hurled it at him. It hit his white cape with a splat, and stained it with the fruits juices. It looked chillingly like blood. She stopped and looked at him with disgust. “That’s better. Show the world the blood that rests on your shoulders. Did you know the realm is now at war?!”

Arthur nodded and looked all the world like a sulking child. “It’s not my fault.”

“Not your fault,” She scoffed. “Tell me Ser Arthur, did you try and stop him?”

“He is my prince!” Arthur said aghast. “I do as he commands!”

“And if he commanded you to kill a child?”

Arthur paused. He went to get his feet, but a flying vase convinced him to stay on the floor. He glared at her. “It’s my turn to ask a question. I think I get two actually.”

She nodded.

“Why did Elia dismiss you?”

She smiled at him. He smiled back. “I’m pregnant.” She replied. The smile fell from his face so fast she burst out laughing.

“What!” He cried. “Ashara how could you have been so foolish? Who is the father?”

She rolled her eyes at him and lifted her arm to show him her bracelet. “Who do you think?”

He glared at her. “I’m going to kill him.” He snarled. “Is it too late for moon tea?”

“Moon tea?” She exclaimed. “What is wrong with you? This is mine and Ned’s child! Why would I kill it? It’s the next heir of Winterfell!”

Arthur frowned at her and then something changed in his eyes. “He promised to marry you didn’t her?”

She smiled at him and nodded. He looked at her with pity. “Ashara…I’m sorry…but Ned…he…they say he…” Arthur swallowed and couldn’t meet her gaze.

“He what?” She demanded. Oh gods, she thought, please don’t let him have died. Don’t tell me he died she begged.

Arthur got to his feet and wandered over. He embraced her in a hug. “Arthur?” She asked, “What happened.”

“A raven arrived a few days ago. I was given it as I entered Starfall this morning. It said…that the…riverlords declared for the Stark’s.”

“But Hoster Tully sent Ned a letter saying he wouldn’t call his banners unless Ned married his daughter.” Ashara replied.

“Exactly.” Arthur said as looked down at her with pity.

If the news that Lyanna was pregnant had hit her like a punch, this news hit her like a ton of bricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter Ned.


	22. Eddard VII: Riverrun Rendevous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned meets the Tully's at Riverrun

Riverrun made for an imposing, yet majestic sight as it appeared on the horizon. While it may not have had the tallest towers, or thickest walls, it was a sturdy and easily defensible position, augmented by the two rivers running beside each side of the castle. The leaping trout of house Tully flew from the battlements, and guards dressed in the blue and red livery marched the walkways. Ned and Jon Arryn ride through the gates, their escort of hundred men following in their wake.

As they rode into the courtyard, they saw the entire household had been assembled. First in line was a tall, broad, strong man with blue eyes, red hair and a heavy beard that could only have been the lord of Riverrun, Hoster Tully. Next to him was his eldest daughter, Brandon’s betrothed, Catelyn. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, but to Ned, Ashara was still more beautiful. Next to her as her younger sister, Lysa, and then a young boy of 10 years who could only be Hoster’s youngest son, Edmure.

Ned pulled his horse to a stop in front of Lord Hoster and dismounted. With Jon Arryn by his side they stepped forward to greet him.

“Lord Stark, Lord Arryn.” Lord Tully said as he extended a hand. Ned seized the man’s grip and shook his hand. “Do you have bread and salt My Lord?” Ned asked. Hoster smiled at him. “Of course,” He said as he dipped his head. He gestured to a nearby servant and she stepped forward holding a plate of bread and bowl of salt. Ned took the bread, sprinkled it with salt and ate it. Inwardly he sighed in relief. Now his safety was assured under the eyes of Gods.

“My family,” Lord Tully was saying as he introduced them. “My eldest Lady Catelyn. She has been raised in the light of the seven and you will find no daughter more dutiful. She has the makings of a very wonderful lady.”

Lady Catelyn stepped forward and curtseyed before extending a hand for Ned to kiss. He placed a gentle kiss upon it, before switching his gaze to the next in line.

“My second daughter, Lysa.”

The girl glared at him with such hatred in her eyes it was slightly disconcerting. He nodded at her with a smile, but she just lifted her nose and turned away. He glanced at Lord Tully, who looked absolutely furious. He smiled at Ned tightly before gesturing to his youngest. “My son, Edmure.”

Ned knelt down to the boys level and ruffled his hair. The boy smiled shyly at him and shook his hand.

“You have beautiful children Lord Tully. You must be proud.” Jon was saying as he greeted Emdure.

“I am. I’ll have my men escort you to your chambers. We’ll meet in my solar after dinner and discuss the state of the realm.”

Ned nodded and followed the soldiers who guided him to his rooms. There he found a steaming tub of water waiting and he bathed, washing the grime of the road from his hair and skin. He put on a new doublet embroidered with the running grey direwolf, before laying down to rest before the evening meal.

When he ascended to the great hall a few hours later, the feast was about to begin. He was seated next to Lady Catelyn, while Jon was seated next to Lord Hoster.

“Lady Catelyn.” He greeted as he took a seat. “Lord Stark.” She replied with a dip of her head.

They sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, before Lady Catelyn spoke again.

“I offer my condolences for the death of your brother and father. They were great men, both of them.”

“My father isn’t dead Lady Catelyn.”

Lady Catelyn frowned. “I heard he was burnt alive by Aerys.”

“He was. He escaped and returned home.”

Lady Catelyn smiled tightly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“No doubt.” Ned replied drily, aware that her dreams of becoming Lady of Winterfell as soon as she married him had just been shattered.

The doors opened and servant’s walked in bearing the first course. It was some sort of creamy fish stew, which was a bit too rich for Ned’s liking.

“So Lord Stark,” Lord Tully called as he ate, “I believe I didn’t have the chance to offer my condolences for the loss of your family earlier. On behalf of house Tully, and indeed all the riverlands, let me offer our condolences.”

With this he stood to his feet and raised his mug of ale. “To Rickard and Brandon Stark, men who were slain unjustly before their time.”

Ned frowned. “My Lord,” he called out, “Where did you get the news that my father was dead?”

It was Lord Hoster’s turn to frown now. “Is he not dead?”

“Did you not receive his letter?”

Lord Hoster smiled. “Come now Lord Stark, it was a cunning ploy pretending your father was alive, but we all know that The Burnt Letter came from you or your allies.”

Ned shook his head. “No. My father still lives. I met him at White Harbour after fleeing the Vale.”

“What you have seen him with your own eyes?”

“Yes. I’ve hugged him with my own arms too.”

“What about your brother?” A voice called out and Ned turned to see little Lysa Tully glaring at him.

“Brandon?” Ned asked. “Brandon is dead.”

The Tully girl smiled sweetly then. “Good.” She said before getting up and storming out of the hall.

“My Lord, I am so sorry, she has been most rebellious ever since I sent my ward home.”

In his head a memory of Brandon boasting sprung up. Something about a boy who challenged him for the hand of Catelyn Tully. What was his name? Littlethumb? Smallfinger?

“Littlefinger.” Edmure called out. “He was Lysa’s friend. He was my friend too, but got upset at me for squiring for your brother.”

Ned smiled tightly. He hadn’t even been here a day and already the Tully’s were grating on his nerves. Jon must have sensed his discomfort because he changed the subject.

“Have you squired for anyone else?” Jon asked Edmure. The boy smiled and begin to talk of his squiring for different knights and Ned ate the rest of his dinner in silence.

Eventually the feast waned to an end and Ned and Jon followed Hoster to his solar. It had a window that overlooked the Red Fork, and the sound of rushing waters filled the air.

Hoster took a seat behind his carved mahogany desk and gestured for the two of them to sit across from him. Ned took a seat and reached for the goblet of wine that had been placed in front of him. Hopefully he wouldn’t need too much of this tonight.


	23. Eddard VIII: Hostile Hoster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Hoster have a talk.

“So,” Hoster Tully said as he sipped his wine, “are you happy with the wedding occurring tomorrow? As its war, it’ll be best to affirm this alliance as quickly as possible.”

Ned winced. It seemed Hoster believed the marriage still stood. This was not good. “Actually Lord Tully, a marriage will not be happening.”

Lord Hoster frowned. “You want it after the war?” He shook his head. “That will not do. If you die in battle then my daughter won’t be lady of Winterfell.”

Ned knew the marriage wasn’t for love, but the callousness of what the man had just said chilled Ned to the bone. Thankfully Jon Arryn interceded on Ned’s behalf.

“I think what Ned meant to say Lord Hoster,” He said, “Is that he will not marry your daughter.”

Hoster scowled deeply and got to his feet. “Now listen here you upstart wolf pup! Me and your father had a deal. I’ve honoured my end of the deal, you honour yours. You’ll marry my daughter and that’s the end of it. She has been raised from birth to be the Lady of Winterfell and you will find no better match in all the seven kingdoms. Plus, her dowry includes a respectable number of troops and the support of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, something I thought you were in need of with your father and brother’s deaths!”

Ned scowled back at him. “For the last time my father is not dead! And didn’t you tell me in the courtyard that your daughter was raised in the light of the seven?”

“Yes.” Hoster spat. “So what?”

“Well then clearly she wasn’t raised to be Lady of Winterfell.” Ned replied.

Hoster’s face turned as red as his hair and he looked ready to burst.

“Come now Hoster. Take a seat, let’s all calm down. This conversation is not going well. Ned explain why you can’t marry Catelyn.” Jon said in a soothing tone

HOster glared at Ned with Jon’s words. “And why can’t you marry my daughter. We all know you’re not betrothed”

Ned shook his head. “I am betrothed Lord Tully.” He raised his arm to reveal the pale white bracelet encircling his wrist. “I am betrothed before my gods.”

Lord Hoster looked upon him in disgust. “I don’t care about your god’s boy. It’s a simple equation. Marry my daughter or I fight for Aerys.”

“Now Lord Hoster don’t be hasty.” Jon was saying, trying to calm both men down.

Hoster glanced at Jon and suddenly nodded. “You’re right. I was too hasty. But boy you will marry my daughter.”

Ned went to protest but Hoster held up a hand, demanding silence.

“I assume you know of your brother’s reputation?” Hoster asked.

Ned glared at him. “My dead brother’s reputation? Be very careful with your next words Lord Tully if you value your life.”

Hoster waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mean it as an insult boy, but rather an assessment of reality.”

“Yes. I know of my brother’s reputation.” Ned replied through gritted teeth.

“Well while he was here, before the gallant fool managed to run off and get himself killed he managed to impregnate my daughter, but not before marrying her.”

Ned frowned. “But that means that your daughter is already the Lady of Winterfell.”

Hoster nodded. “There is only one problem. All of Brandon’s witnesses were killed at King’s Landing.”

Ned nodded understanding now. His heart was sinking in his chest.

“It’s simple Ned. Marry the girl, and become Lord of Winterfell, Brandon’s son will become the Lord after you.”

Ned frowned. Something did not add up here.

“Did Brandon marry before a godswood?” Ned asked.

“Yes.”

Ned smiled at Lord Tully. He picked up his wine glass and began to swirl the dark red liquid inside around. “Tell me Lord Tully, did you know that Brandon loved a woman back in the North?”

Lord Hoster shrugged. “I don’t really care.”

“Well on the day he was told he was to marry your daughter he ran away to marry his love. My father ran after him of course and brought him back, but that night as we ate, he made clear his terms for marrying your daughter. His first, and most important term, was that he would marry her in the light of the seven.”

Hoster frowned at him. “he changed his mind.”

Ned smiled and out the glass back down. “Do you know why he wanted to marry your daughter in the light of the seven?”

“No.”

“It was because once my father had deposed Aerys and broken from the south, he intended to marry his love before a godswood. No doubt blood…” Ned knocked the wine glass over and it spilled over the desk, “…would have been spilled, but it would not have mattered in the end. Your daughter would still be left without a home and most likely with a child Brandon didn’t want.”

“What are you saying?” Lord Tully snarled.

“Why, you lying of course. Brandon never married your daughter. Did he sleep with her? Yes. Did he marry her? No.”

“So fix the stain your brother left on my daughter’s honour!”

“and destroy my own honour in the process?” Ned scoffed. “Why would I do that? To break a betrothal before the gods is to bring ruin and shame upon my house.”

The men sat in silence for a while contemplating what had just been said. HOster Tully glared at Ned.

“Screw your gods and screw your honour!” Hoster Tully suddenly yelled. “Guards!”

Immediately the door burst open and four guards rushed in.

“Seize these men and throw them in the dungeons!” Hoster snarled as he pointed at Jon and Ned.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, as Jon and Ned sat in the cells beneath Riverrun Ned turned to Jon.

“Jon,” He asked. “Did I do the right thing?”

Jon sighed. “If you just married the girl it would be so much easier.”

“I know. But a woman has been dishonoured. I can’t just let her go.”

“No one expects you too.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

Ned laughed suddenly. “Even in death Brandon is getting me in trouble!” Ned mused. “Life is strange.”

Jon nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well tomorrow Lord Tully wants an answer. He sends a raven tomorrow night he said.”

Ned sighed. Why did the gods have to instil a sense of duty within him? Why couldn’t he be more like Brandon? He sighed, knowing what he must do now.

“Guard!” He called. After a moment a guard appeared at the narrow slit that served as a window.

“What?” he spat out.

“Call Lord Tully. Tell him I have made my decision.”


	24. Eddard IX: Nothing's gonna stop me now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally find out Ned's decision. But does it leave us with more questions than answers?

The cell door opened and Brynden Tully walked in holding a flask of wine. He looked at Ned who was curled into the corner, still hurting form where Hoster had hit him. The swelling covered half of his face and throbbed painfully. He hadn’t been amused when Ned had told him he was not going to marry his daughter a second time, accusing him of wasting his time. That had been an hour ago.

“Hello.” Jon said as he struggled to his feet. “What brings you here?”

Jon’s presence was perhaps Ned’s greatest regret. He had never meant for Jon to get caught up and hurt in his father’s games, but his father had insisted on his presence. He had said something about learning of the Burnt Lord’s bite second hand.

Brynden Tully turned to Ned and sat down across from him. “You really love her don’t you?” He asked.

There was no need to ask who he was talking about. He closed his eyes and saw her face in his mind’s eye. Raven black hair, a heart shaped face and hauntingly beautiful purple eyes that danced with laughter.

“Aye.” Ned replied as he looked at the man they called the Blackfish. “It’s because I love her that I refuse to marry another.”

Brynden nodded and Ned thought he saw a spark of bitterness in the man’s eyes. He took a swig from the wine flask before offering it to Ned. Ned took it gratefully and swallowed a large gulp before passing it to Jon.

“Were you ever told how I got the name Blackfish?”

Ned shook his head. Brynden grinned as he took the wine from Jon.

“My brother wanted me to marry a Redwyne girl. I refused and wouldn’t marry her, so in a moment of rage he labelled me as the ‘black goat of the Tully flock’. I laughed and told him I was a Tully and that I was a black fish, not a black goat. He very kindly suggested to me to use it as my sigil, so I did. Ever since I have been known as the Blackfish.”

Ned looked at Brynden sceptically. “Does you story have a point?” He asked.

“It does actually. You see, once I was in the exact same position as you. Lord Tully was trying to force me into a marriage that I didn’t want to be in.”

“You told him no and refused to marry the girl he wanted you too. That doesn’t exactly help your argument here.”

“But it does.” Brynden replied. “You see,” He sighed, “My brother has always been an ambitious man. Ambitious, but he is also honourable and good.”

“Honourable and good?” Ned scoffed. “he broke guest right!”

Brynden winced. “He did,” He conceded. “But beneath that ambition he is good. I promise to do all I can to convince him to side with you. Even if I have to sneak you out of here myself, I promise to do all I can to let you marry the girl you love.”

Ned looked at Brynden mournfully. “I’m sorry Ser Brynden but it’s too late.” He sighed.

“Too late?” Brynden asked, “What do you mean?”

Ned sighed again. “It doesn’t matter now. There is nothing you or I can do to stop what is too come.”

Brynden looked at him in confusion. “Stop? Stop what?”

The sounds of a scuffle outside the door filled the cell and everyone’s eyes snapped to the door. It opened to reveal a grinning giant and a leech lord. “Stop us of course!” Greatjon Umber called out as he and Roose Bolton stepped into the cell, his giant Iron greatsword glittering in the dull light.


	25. Hoster I: The Burnt Lord's Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Burnt Lord is here! Seriously though this has most probably been my favorite chapter to write so far. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a chapter earlier today so make sure to read that before you read this.

Hoster Tully opened his eyes to hear shouting and yelling going on in the courtyard. He sat up hurriedly and turned throw on his boots when he first noticed the figure in the corner. His face was shrouded in shadows, but he could see his gauntlet covered hands; hands which held a Valyrian steel greatsword.

“Ah,” The figure said, “You’re awake.”

“Who are you?” Hoster said as he scrambled back in his bed. The man shrugged.

“Only a dead man.” He stirred and pulled a whetstone from his lap. He began to run it down his Valyrian steel sword. The yells of the men outside were drowned out by the scrape of the stone against the steel edge. “We’ve never met but we have talked extensively on a variety of matters.”

“We have?” Hoster asked dubiously.

“Yes.” The man replied.

“What’s your name?” Hoster asked as he glanced at the bedside table where he kept a dagger stashed.

“The dagger’s gone.” The man said as he noticed Hoster’s gaze. “As is the sword in your closet, the crossbow in the chest at the end of your bed, the ceremonial axes hanging on the wall and the guards outside your door are currently…incapacitated. Don’t try anything Lord Tully or you will find it will not go down well.”

Hoster swallowed thickly. This man was good. If he couldn’t fight his way out than he would have to talk his way out. Hopefully he could stall long enough for his other guards to get here wherever they were.

“What do you want?” he asked suspiciously. He saw the man’s shrouded figure shrug. “Just vengeance.”

“Vengeance?” Hoster asked, “Vengeance for whom?”

“Vengeance for the fallen. Vengeance for the slain. Vengeance for the burnt…” The man’s voice dropped an octave. “Vengeance for my son.”

Suddenly Hoster knew who this was. “No…” Hoster murmured as he glanced at the man in shock.

The man removed a hand from the sword and threw forward a scrap of paper. It floated through the air to land in front of him. He picked it up and recognised it as the letter that Lord Rickard had supposedly sent out after his burning. The one the nobles called the burnt letter.

“I sent a letter Lord Tully. I warned you all; there shall be no mercy for those that get in my way.”

The man stood up and stepped into the light to reveal a horribly burnt face. “When I first saw my son and his betrothed I promised him that if you stood in the way of his marriage I would show you that this Burnt Lord still has bite. You’ve stood in the way of a marriage before the Old Gods and broken guest right. If you lived in the North I would have your head.”

It took a moment for The Burnt Lord’s words to sink in.

“So you won’t kill me?” Hoster asked his heart in his mouth. The Burnt Lord didn’t respond he merely wandered over to the window that looked down upon Riverrun’s courtyard.

“Why would I do that?” The Burnt Lord said with a querying look. “You can still help me.”

“What makes you think I would ever help you? Especially after this?”

“Come here.” He said as he gestured with one gauntlet clad hand. Hoster stood and wandered over to the window. He looked down into the courtyard and what he saw made his heart catch in his mouth.

His beautiful children were standing there, surrounded by soldiers flying the banners of house Stark. Catelyn stood proud, unflinching even in the face of death. She cradled a crying Edmure in one arm, and a sobbing Lysa in the other.

“Here is what is going to happen Lord Tully.” The Burnt Lord said as he hefted his sword onto his shoulder, “You’re going to call your banners. You’re going to convince them too fight for the rebels. You’ll march your troops beside ours in any battle and you’ll help me throw Aerys from the throne.”

“Why would I do that?”

The Burnt Lord smiled and it chilled Lord Tully to the bone.

“First I will kill the second girl. What’s her name? Lysa? Then the boy, then your brother and then finally once your other daughter has given birth to Brandon’s… _bastard_ …I will kill her. I will take Brandon’s son and raise him as a Stark through and through. Then I will legitimise him, give him a new name, maybe Mudd, and raise him to Lord of Riverrun.”

Hoster’s mind went into overdrive as he thought through this set of actions. He didn’t believe him. Above all Starks were known to be honourable, indeed his gallant fool of a son had rushed to his death to defend his sister’s honour. No, The Burnt Lord was bluffing.

“Your Bluffing” Hoster said as he turned away from the window.

The Burnt Lord shrugged as though he didn’t care either way. He grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him out of the room. The Burnt Lord dragged him into the corridors and down into the Riverrun’s courtyard. His children saw him immediately, as well as the grim spectre that strode beside him.

Lysa shrieked upon seeing him and burst into a fresh round of sobs. “Father!” She shrieked.

“Hold him.” The Burnt Lord snarled at two of his soldiers as he shoved Hoster into their arms.

He strode over to Hoster’s children and snatched the sobbing Lysa from Catelyn’s arms. “Bring me a block!” He roared and the soldiers rushed to do his bidding. Lysa began to struggle and scream as she realised what The Burnt Lord was about to do.

The soldiers pulled a block from somewhere, a great, hulking, black piece of ironwood, though where from Hoster had no clue. He began to struggle in the soldiers grasp. “Stop!” He called “You’re scaring her!”

The Burnt Lord frowned at him as the block was placed in front of him. “Scaring her?” he snarled, “I’m killing her!”

He shoved Lysa’s head down onto the block and ordered his soldiers to hold it there. In the background a door slammed but The Burnt Lord didn’t even flinch.

“Stop! Stop!” Hoster cried, “I’ll call my banners! I’ll work with you! Stop!”

“Do you have any last words you wish for us to convey?” The Burnt Lord asked Lysa as she struggled on the block. Lysa screamed wordlessly in response.

“In the name of the Old Gods, the first and last of all the gods, the gods of the first men and the ones who have been and shall always be, I, Rickard of House Stark sentence you to die.”

With that he hefted his great Valyrian steel sword and swung it down. Hoster watched in horror as the sword swung over his daughter’s head right in front of him.

Then, just before it could separate Lysa’s head from her body, a dark blue smashed into the Burnt Lord and sent him and his sword flying away. Hoster watched in amazement as Eddard Stark untangled himself from his father’s limbs and struggled to his feet panting heavily.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” He screamed at The Burnt Lord.

The Burnt Lord pulled himself off the floor before wandering over and picking up his sword. He threw a dark glare at his son before storming off into the bowels of the castle.

“Release him at once!” Eddard Stark said as he pointed at Hoster Tully, “and for god’s sake someone send his children back to their rooms!”

Eddard Stark lifted Lysa off the block himself and muttered soothing words before placing her in Catelyn’s graps. He murmed something to Hoster’s three children and they nodded and went on their way, albeit shadowed by six Stark guards. Eddard Stark turned to him then and made his way over.

“Count yourself very lucky Lord Tully,” Eddard growled. “If I had of been even one second later you would be mourning a daughter right now.”

Then the young man sighed and seemed to collapse in on himself. For the first time since seeing him, Hoster was struck by how young the man was. He was barely older than Catelyn and had borne more grief in his short time than most men did in their entire lives.

“Why couldn’t you have just worked with us?” He asked as he rubbed his brow. “Lock him in his chambers!” Eddard Stark said as he turned away, “And get his brother from the cells!”

Hoster was dragged away by some more Stark soldiers, and suddenly noticed how many there were. How did he get so many men into here and so quickly as well as quietly? Common sense told him that it was impossible but that was not the story his eyes were singing.

Hours later, the door clicked open and Eddard Stark stepped into his chambers. He glanced at the young man before switching his gaze to the window again. Eddard Stark crossed the room and sat down in the chair across from him. He took a goblet from the table and filled it with wine before taking a long sip and sighing appreciatively.

“I’ve managed to talk him down for now.” He said.

Hoster switched his gaze back to the young lord. “He was really going to kill her.”

“He was.”

“Why?”

Eddard sighed. “Ever since he returned from King’s Landing he’s been…different. More blood thirsty, more consumed, more…driven. You stood in his way and he saw an outlet for his anger. So he took it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s a bit late for that now.”

“I know.”

The two men sat in comfortable silence for a minute before Eddard Stark stirred again.

“There are conditions to continued peace.”

“What are they?” Hoster asked, half fearing the terms.

“Your children will be sent to Winterfell until the war is over, officially for safety and fostering, actually as hostages to ensure your continued good behaviour.”

“But Catelyn’s pregnant! Travel could damage her health.”

“I know. And I’m sorry but he insisted. In truth he wants to execute you all and install your brother as lord until Brandon’s son comes of age. The terms I have now are the best I can offer you.”

“Are there any other terms?”

“Yes. You will call your banners and fight beside us. You will fight beside us because your children’s lives will depend upon it.”

“I can do that.”

Eddard sighed heavily now. “The final term is that…you will be castrated.”

“Castrated!”

“Yes.”

“Whatever for?!”

“So that you don’t just remarry and have another child.”

“NO!” Hoster cried. To hold his children hostage was one thing, but to castrate him was another thing entirely. It was barbaric, cruel and downright insulting.

“The alternative Lord Tully is the heads of all your children and a marauding Northern army swamping through your lands.”

“No! I am a man of honour!” Hoster cried in protest.

Eddard Stark’s stance shifted and he glared at Hoster coldly. “Do I need remind you that you broke guest right?”

Eddard Stark stood to his feet. “You have till tomorrow to accept the terms. If you haven’t accepted by then I will let my father go by his original plan,” He strode away but paused at the door. “Believe me when I say that is something none of us want to see implemented.”


	26. Robert III: Stoney Sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people are complaining about last chapter and Rickard's decision to have Hoster castrated. There are a few reasons why he did this and not send him to the wall.  
> Firstly, having Hoster working with them minus his testicles is better than having a Hoster with his testicles not working with them at the wall. Second if Rickard takes his abiltiy to procreat his is totally reliant on his children's living if he wishes to continue his line, children which Rickard Stark currently holds hostage.  
> No Rickard does not need Hoster, but it makes it easier. If Rickard has to do A, B, C, D, Hoster has the ability to negate B, limiting his workload.

Robert rushed through the darkened streets and into the building that was shrouded in shadows. He glanced at the hill overlooking the town and his heart plummeted in his chest. The hill was crawling with soldiers, and even in the dim light of the setting sun, the three headed dragon of house Targaryen flew from their rippling banners.

He turned to the man next to him, a loyal knight who had been with him since he had left Storm’s End. “Go!” He said as he clasped him in a bear hug. “Get Ned. Tell him where we are. We’ll hide until he arrives!”

The knight looked at him in regret before nodding once and turning away, rushing down to the street to mount his horse and ride away. Robert wondered if he’d ever see him again. He shook his head and gestured for his men to follow. The men he had left Storm’s End with were all gone, apart from these last loyal few.

He had sent the remains of his army North East and fled North West himself in the hope that Connington would pursue him rather than his army. Thankfully, the fool had played into his hands and pursued him, allowing his army to link up with Ned and Jon’s. Now all he had to do was wait here until Ned could send a force to relieve him.

“Psst!” A voice said and Robert looked up to see a topless woman peering down at him. He burst into a grin. “Well aren’t you a pretty one!” Robert whispered back.

The lady blushed, before gesturing for him to come in.

Maybe he could hide here for a while. It would certainly be better than hiding in a field as he was originally going to do.


	27. Rickard IV: The hellfire within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm sorry for the lack of updates. No excuses. Just couldn't be bothered for a bit. Rickard's last chapter (Yes the one where he ordered Hoster's balls cut off) took a lot out of me.  
> Anyway...I'm back...and hopefully here to stay.  
> Enjoy and tell me what you think.

Rickard watched from the shadows as the great hall of Riverrun slowly filled with the ilk they called the Riverlords.

The worst of them was approaching him now, Lord Walder Frey.

“Lord Stark!” Lord Frey called as he hobbled over, a lecherous grin plastered over his weasel-like face. “I heard you received quite the _warm_ reception from old King Aerys aye?” The old man cackled at his own joke, while Rickard snarled silently. “That’s alright though,” The old man continued “you have another don’t you? Not as many as me mind you, but then nobody does these days! Heh!”

Rickard walked away before he punched the obnoxious man going to speak to with Tytos Blackwood, a man he considered a personal friend.

“Lord Stark,” Lord Blackwood greeted solemnly as he approached him. “Let me offer my condolences for your loss Lord Stark.”

Rickard nodded gratefully. Tytos glanced around at the other lords before leaning in close.

“What happened with Lord Tully?” He whispered.

Rickard glared at the mentioned lord who was occupying himself at the front of the hall with his son, preparing for the coming meeting with the lords of the Riverland’s. He had personally told Lord Tully that his children’s usefulness fully depended on the outcome of this meeting. As such, the man was putting all his effort into ensuring the lords supported the right side.

“He imprisoned my son and broke guest right” Rickard replied simply.

Tytos whistled lowly. “So the rumours were true.”

“Rumours?” Lord Stark asked.

“A rumour had been running around that Tully angered you so you took his castle in a midnight storm. The fact that all of his children were begin escorted north certainly helped the argument.”

“Keep it on the quiet Tytos. He is only cooperating because we have his children.”

Tytos bowed his head, “of course” He said as he took a sip of his wine.

Up the front, the now cockless wonder had managed to get himself organised and had called the meeting to order. He was blathering on about things that Rickard had no care for, so he left Lord Tytos and resumed his post in the shadows by the corner.

Up the front his son sat uncomfortably, clearly unused to the attention of so many lords. How he had managed to charm the Dayne girl Rickard would never know, but maybe he had more of his brother in him than he had originally thought.

Truth be told he was very proud of his second son, and though he doubted Ned would be able to do it, if he could get past his blasted honour he could easily be feared by his enemies as a deadly opponent in whatever game these southerners wanted to play. As his father had said to him upon meeting Brandon and Ned, a wild wolf is dangerous but a quiet wolf is deadly.

Thinking of Brandon soured Rickard’s attitude very quickly. Mournfully, he thought of the eldest son he had lost, his firstborn, the heir of a line that was 8000 years old. The room was filled with laughter suddenly in response to something someone had said, but Rickard found himself back in the throne room, the laughter of the spectators echoing around him.

His son knelt next to him, bloodied and bruised but…alive. As if on cue, his son’s handsome face melted into the snarling head of a wolf, and he was in his arms looking up at the wolf. Behind the wolf’s head, green fire burned, yet the echoes of laughter still surrounded him.

Laughter consumed his ears, a harsh cackling filling the air around him. Faces swum in front of him, all those who he had laid eyes on that day. He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to dispel the demons of his past, but they merely appeared in his mind’s eye.

He needed to get out. Where was he?

He was lost. Lost within his own mind. He tried to walk forward but it was like walking underwater. His limbs weren’t responding, and his brain couldn’t seem to connect to the rest of his body.

His heart thundered in his chest and the painful bite of wildfire raced up his marred skin. He needed to get out of here, wherever here was.

Out of the darkness that had consumed his vision a black raven sprung forth screaming. It had a third eye in the middle of its forehead.

“The Burnt Lord!” It cackled. “Lord Stark!” It cackled “Rickard!” It cackled. “Father!” It cackled.

Rickard felt a weight on his arm and was suddenly back in the great hall of Riverrun, surrounded by the nobility of the Riverland’s. A hand rested on his arm and he looked up into the concerned face of his son.

“Are you alright father?” His son asked.

Rickard struggled to his feet. Somehow he had fallen over in the confusion. Wordlessly he stormed out of the hall, ignoring the looks the southerners were giving him. He made it outside to the fresh air and noticed the godswood in the distance. He barely managed to make it before letting out the guttural scream that was consuming him from the inside out.

_Make them pay._

The words came as a whisper upon the wind and it took Rickard back to a dimly lit cave, far beneath the convoluted rush of King’s Landing, to the dying words of his son.

Tears streamed down Rickard’s face as he looked up at the stars. The tears trickled down his broken, marred cheeks, dripping off and falling onto his grotesque hands. Footsteps echoed behind him and he turned to observe Ned standing there a bit apprehensively.

He didn’t say a word, instead just came to stand beside him and observe the stars with him.

Up there, somewhere, Brandon drifted, watching over them. One day Rickard would be able to look down and think of Aerys…Aerys and the hellfire he would reside in.


	28. Eddard X: Battle of Stoney Sept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Stoney Sept is finally here.

The Knight had arrived a week ago, and bore news of the gravest countenance. Robert Baratheon was wounded and currently hiding in the town of Stoney Sept. Worse, he was being pursued by Jon Connington, the new hand of the king, and a Royalist army. Ned and his father had left at once, taking 35,000 northerners and 15,0000 Riverlords, along with the gathered remnants of Robert’s host, some 3500 men. In total it was over 50,000 men who were currently descending on the small town where Connington’s host was camped. The northern cavalry had already engaged a probing force that Connington had sent out to test their mettle.

Within the town, Ned could see Connington order his troops into defensive formations. Archers were taking the rooves and pikemen were lining the streets. Other men were frantically searching the houses, looking for Robert and his remaining retinue.

What Connington didn’t realise however was that the town had already fallen and Robert had already been whisked away.

1000 men of Ned’s host were underneath the town, preparing to storm out and open the gates. He looked over to where his father was finalising the battle plans with Jon Arryn and Brynden Tully.

Hoster had been left back in Riverrun, under the ‘care’ of some of his father’s most loyal soldiers.

His father donned a steel helm, and Rickard was gone, in his place the brutal burnt lord. He mounted his horse and rode over to where Ned and Denys Arryn were waiting. Once again Ned would be leading the vanguard into the town, and where ironically the fighting would be thickest.

“Are you ready?” The Burnt Lord asked. Ned nodded, not trusting himself to speak. In the town below the bells had begun to ring, tolling out across the land. As if they had summoned him, Robert Baratheon appeared next to him, wielding a war hammer, and wearing his antlered helm.

Ned turned to Robert. “You don’t mean to fight do you?”

Robert shrugged. “Why not?”

“I thought your arm was injured.”

“It is. Don’t stop me from swinging my hammer though.”

Ned grunted in reply. If Robert wanted to be stupid, let him. He could hold his own in a fight.

“Is Connington still there?” Robert asked.

“Yea.” Ned replied as he handed him the spyglass. “Check the square. Near the fountain.”

Robert lifted the device to his eye and grunted once he had found him. “He’s mine.” He said as he passed back the spyglass.

“You’re welcome to him.” Denys said with a shaky grin.

“Good.” Robert replied. “What’s the plan?”

“We will lead the foot soldiers into the town, while our troops already in the town will open the northern gate, and subdue the archers on the walls. Once we’ve got the walls it’s a push to the town square, where Connington and his commanders are. My father and Jon Arryn will remain outside with the cavalry to ensure the army can’t retreat.”

“Tis a good plan.” Robert said.

“Thank you.” The Burnt Lord said as he watched the last of their troops get into position. “It looks like it’s time.”

With this The Burnt Lord spurred his horse away to join his cavalry that was continuing to circle the town. Ned turned to the Greatjon and nodded. The Greatjon raised a great big horn to his lips and blew hard. It echoed across the hills and into the town, and all around his soldiers began to march forward.

The pikemen were at the front, followed by a group of archers. Running in front of the column of men, and soaring overhead were the various animals of the north’s warg legion. He saw many wolves and a few bears. The most unique creature to grace the field of battle though was easily the war wolves.

The War Wolves were specially bred wolves that were almost twice the size of a normal wolf, and twice as savage as well. While not as big, or strong as the fabled direwolves that now only existed beyond the wall and on the stark’s banners, they were still formidable and horrifying beasts to fight.

On the walls, Ned’s troops within had begun their assault and the northern gate was slowly opening. The fighting on the walls could be clearly seen and Ned urged his horse into a gallop in order to assist his men as soon as possible. Robert was on his right and Denys on his left, along with the other leading commanders. The gates were now open and revealed the savage fighting that was going on within. It was a bloodbath and already Ned could see the cobblestones were slick with spilled blood.

Ned’s small group of horsemen smashed into Connington’s shield wall and broke it open. The soldiers within the town took advantage of the opportunity and used it to further widen the gap. Ned wrenched his sword from it’s sheath and swung down at the soldiers surrounding him. He hacked a path through the remaining shields and gave his pikemen time to enter the town. They crashed into the line with Pikes down and began a brutal affair of pushing into the centre of the town.

Ned felt his horse slacken beneath him, and sprung from it just as it collapsed to the floor, a spear sticking through it’s chest. Ned looked at the man who had committed the act, one who was now weapon less. The man tried to yank his spear out of the horse, to no avail, before turning and running.

The street’s were getting so tight, it was becoming hard for Ned to swing his sword. A few meters away, he heard the roar of Robert as he laid into another group of men. Suddenly the Targaryen line broke, and began an orgainsed retreat away from the deathtrap that was the northern gate.

Arrows began to fall around him and Ned looked to the rooftops to see archers in the Targaryen livery shooting down upon them.

“Greatjon!” Ned called. “Gather some men and clear the rooves.”

The giant nodded grimly before rushing off. The northerners were now crouched bhind their shields attempting to protect themselves from the arrows that were raining down upon them. The arrows stopped very quickly though when the Greatjon and his soldiers stormed the rooftops.

With the orgniased retreat of the foot soldiers, and the Greatjon’s subjugation of the nearby archers, there was a brief lull in the fighting. Ned took the opportunity to reassess the situation. His troops were still pouring through the north gate, and there seemed to be some sort of resistance in the left gatehouse. Further into the town, Ned could see that the Targaryen lines had reformed and were preparing to attempt to push out.

The yelling from the eastern gate could only mean that that gate had fallen as well. He nodded to Robert and Denys, who joined him in his observation of the Targaryen line.

“Reform!” Robert bellowed as he swung his hammer above his head. “Reform! Pikeman at the front, archers at the back!”

The northern soldiers quickly reformed their lines and began to march down the narrow streets, pikes extended in front of them in order to keep the Targaryen soldiers at bay. Eddard took his place in the front of the line, his shield hefted to his shoulder and a discarded spear grasped in his hand.

“Forward March!” He called as his host began to grind towards the Targaryen lines. The press of bodies around him was suffocating but Ned ignored it all as the lines met with a crash.

A spear sliced through Ned’s cheek, causing warm blood to run down his face. He pushed hard with his shield, and behind him his soldiers began to push forward, crushing the first line between themselves and the Targaryen shield wall.

A howl cut through the air, and then a dark black blur smashed into the men in front of Ned. The men collapsed under the blur and Ned and his men seized the opportunity. They fought their way into the narrow gap and began to widen it.

A force smashed Ned on the helm and he slipped on the blood soaked cobblestones. He went down beneath the crush of men and lost his grip on his spear. He scrambled back to his feet, drawing his sword to be confronted with a darting spearhead. He evaded it, and blocked it with his shield when suddenly the spear wielder was torn backwards screaming.

A black War Wolf, its muzzle coated in blood, and a crazed look in its eyes, shook the man’s body in its jaws. The man’s leg detached from his torso with a sickening crunch. The man’s body disappeared into the mass of men and the War Wolf followed after it, not finished with its new found toy. Ned shivered as he watched the beast, glad he wasn’t the one facing it’s terrifying presence.

Ned found himself facing another men and soon his body was in autopilot. He slipped into a pattern of block, thrust, kill. Men fell beneath his blade like water. Next to him Robert was a maelstrom of death, killing all who were unfortunate enough to wander within range of the swings of his hammer. The northern line was successfully pushing the soldiers back to the town square, where Connington and his main host were situated.

In a similar situation to the fight at the north gate, the Targaryen line broke very quickly and the Ned was given another breathing period. Thankfully by this stage, the northerners had managed to gain the rooftops and as such the foot soldiers in the streets below were safe from the Targaryen archers.

There was one more street to go before they reached the square were Connington was situated. Ahead of them, the Targaryen line was being rapidly reformed. Ned could see Connington himself now. He was standing on the steps of the sept that the town was named for, yelling orders to his men and coordinating his remaining troops.

Robert and Denys came up on Ned as he watched him. Denys handed him a waterskin and Ned drank from it grategfully before spilling the rest upon his head.

In the square Connington’s eyes alighted on them. For a long, strange moment both men just watched each other. Ned nodded politely before placing on his helm and stepping back into the mass of men that was the northern line.

Connington immediately begun yelling for his men to reform on the streets to the northern gate. Ned sighed. It would have been a sound plan had he held the rooftops. As it was though, northern archers beginning raining a storm of steel upon the Targaryen line. The line, forced to engage or risk losing more men, begun to push forward.

The arrows continued to rain down however, and before the line had even reached his, they were faltering.

Two War Wolves appeared on the rooftops and dropped down into the Targaryen line, cauding widespread chaos as the men tried to kill the beasts of war that haunted them.

The line had broken. Now was the time.

“Forward march!” Ned cried as he drew his sword and pointed it forward. “For Brandon!”

“FOR BRANDON!” His host yelled as they charged forward to engage the remnants of the once mighty Targaryen host.

The blow of a horn split the air and suddenly the soldiers were in full retreat. Ned’s own line broke as his soldiers picked up their pace to pursue them. They manged to enter the square and the fight degenerated into one on one fights between individual men.

In the chaos he had lost sight of Denys and Robert. He was brought back to the present with the sight of a sword swinging towards him. He hefted his sword and blocked his foes attack before responding with a swing of his own. He struck true and bit deep into the man’s neck.

The man’s helm fell off, and with a start Ned realised that it was no man he had been facing but a boy. He looked on in horror as the light left the boys eyes. He was struck still for a moment when a cry of pain interrupted his thoughts.

He looked for the source to see Denys scrambling backwards away from an advancing Jon Connington, who was sweeping his sword in wide sweeping arcs. Denys tripped on the edge of the fountain and fell back into the water.

Ned scrambled forward, weaving his way through the mass of men to reach his friend. He spear tackled Connington into the fountain, disrupting his swing so that it only bit into Denys’s shoulder, rather than his neck. Connington scrambled backwards away from Ned.

“Traitor!” He screamed as he pulled a dagger from his belt. “Die monster!”

He threw himself at Ned only to be knocked away by a gauntlet clad fist. He looked up into the grim eyes of Robert Baratheon. He had lost his hammer and helm back in the streets, and blood coursed from a cut on the side of his head, but it only seemed to make him more imposing than he was before. He held his fists up in a boxer’s stance and spat at Connington.

The Griffin Lord took one look before turning to flee. Robert went after him, and Ned helped Denys out of the fountain and onto the steps of the sept. Around him the fight was pretty much over, the last Targaryen soldiers were throwing down their arms and falling to their knees.

Over all the chaos, the sound of bells continuously tolled, alerting all to the state of war within the town below.


	29. Davos I: The Smuggler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos Seaworth enters the story! Here comes one of my favorite characters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure you have read the previous updates before reading this one. I updated earlier today so you may have missed it. It is a really important and pivotal chapter.

Davos sat hunched over his ale in the shady pub in the bottom of Flea Bottom. He had just finished a rather treacherous voyage through the stepstones that had a big payday, so for Davos this was the equivalent of a grand party.

The last trip had been one of the most dangerous he had ever been on, though not the most dangerous. No that title was reserved for a job that he did in the north. He still shuddered to think of those rushing waters and that gaping stone maw. The fact that he had survived…and gotten away with it was reward enough. After that job he hadn’t returned to the Northern smuggling routes, never going past the three sisters.

In his youth Davos had been a far more adventurous man. He had many run in’s with the northern authorities, indeed he was one of the few who could claim he was so well…respected…that even the heir of saltsmaw, Beron Saltstark, knew of him. He had even run into him on more than one occasion.

Davos had a family that he had to think of now though. A beautiful wife who loved him and sons who he adored with all his heart. He couldn’t take these risks anymore. Which is why the thoughts of relieving the garrison of Storm’s End seemed so foreign in Davos’s mind. Yet in his heart of hearts Davos knew why he was thinking of this. He had seen on the sea’s what famine did to a man. No one deserved to die like that.

His decision made he drained the last of his ale and slammed his mug down on the bench. He stood up and made to leave when the door of the pub opened and in strode a man that Davos knew. He ducked his head and went to quickly brush past, hoping the man did not notice him, but it was all to no avail.

A hand gripped his arm and dragged him back into the pub and down to one of the back tables that was shrouded in shadow. He shoved him roughly into the seat before sitting down opposite him. The man raised his arm to the barkeeper and called for two ales before turning back to Davos.

“I haven’t been in your waters for the last two years.” Davos rushed out, “So whatever you think I did I didn’t do it.”

The man’s steely grey eyes met Davos’s coldly before filling with mirth. He laughed lowly at the smuggler.

“How long did you think you could run Davos?”

“I did nothing wrong.” Davos stubbornly insisted.

“Really?” The man asked. “Didn’t refuse to pay your way like the rest of the captains that use the river under my control.”

Davos paused. He could have sworn no one had seen him that night. He had even used the black sails.

As if the man was reading his thoughts he spoke. “Black sails don’t make you invisible Davos. Hard to see, yes, invisible, no.”

Davos scowled at having been caught. The man laughed lowly.

“Do you know why we let you go Davos?”

“No.” Davos snapped. “What do you want Beron? If you’re here to kill me just get on with it already would you!”

Beron Saltstark, heir of the saltsmaw just laughed at him. “I’ll admit since that night, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you Davos. Do you know not even I can get through that bloody river. Come now, tell me how you did it.”

Davos shook his head. “A good smuggler never reveals his trade routes.”

Beron laughed. “Fair point Davos, fair point. I have missed you up north. Some of my fondest memories are chasing you around the bite.”

Davos scoffed. “Some of my worst memories are you chasing me around the bite.”

Beron let loose another laugh.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Davos asked as he accepted an ale from the innkeeper. “I don’t know if you noticed but the local authorities aren’t that amenable to your type at the moment.”

“I’ve come with an offer.”

“An offer?” Davos asked surprised.

“Yea. We need some…goods moved.”

“What do I get?”

“A few things. First, you’ll be pardoned for fare skipping the wolf’s maw.”

Davos grunted. “Not good enough.”

Beron smiled. “I’m not done yet Davos. You’ll also be given an opportunity to distinguish yourself. If you do well there may be a knighthood available, perhaps a small keep…an opportunity for your sons to be squires for high lords.”

Davos nodded. “That sounds alright.”

Beron grinned at him. “So you in?”

“Depends. What am I doing?”

“Ever heard of Storm’s End?”

Davos nodded noncommittally. “May have. Last I heard though Paxter Redwyne was sinking every ship that came close.”

Beron nodded and his easy going grin faltered for just a moment. “We plan to change that.”

“How?”

“Redwyne has 200 ships blockading Storm’s End. I currently have 100 at my disposal. Storm’s End needs relieving. You’ll be taking a ship filled with food and soldiers and drop them off within Storm’s End. Then you’ll have to get out of there quick smart because you’ll be doing that every night until the garrison is refreshed and the larders filled.”

“No offence Beron but the math ain’t on your side with that one. He has twice the ships you have. How do you expect to be able to beat him?”

“I don’t. I just plan to give you the window to get the supplies in and out.”

Davos stewed over it for a while. To his amusement he noticed Beron shift uncomfortably. In all his time knowing the young admiral he had never seen him like this.

“Is that all I have to do?”

“No” Beron said as he lifted his own ale to his lips. “Once that is done I have a…personal request.”

“Personal request?”

“Yea. I have some friends in King’s Landing that will need to leave before the siege. I’ll tell you the details of that one later though.”

Davos nodded. “Well then what are we waiting for?”

Beron grinned at him. “That’s the spirit! Keep that up when you trying to outrun Paxter Redwyne’s war galleys and the war will be over in no time!”

Davos shrugged. “It always seemed to work when I was outrunning you so I don’t see why it shan’t work on another uppity lord.”

It was Davos’s turn to laugh this time as he watched Beron’s grin twist into a scowl.


	30. Jamie III: Rhaegar's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar returns to King's Landing to receive his news from a strange source. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Rhaegar Targaryen rode in the gates of the Red Keep like a returning conqueror and surrounded by a Dornish host. Jamie watched from his post next to Aerys as Rhaegar dismounted and approached his father. Suspiciously absent from Rhaegar’s side was Ser’s Gerold, Oswell and Arthur. Their absence did not bode well.

“Father.” Rhaegar said as he bowed before the king of the seven kingdoms. Aerys scowled at him. “Where are the other Kingsguard? Where is Ser’s Arthur and Oswell? Where is the lord commander of _my_ Kingsguard?” He snapped.

Rhaegar smiled consolingly. “I have dispatched them on a very important mission.”

Aerys regarded him suspiciously. “What game are you playing at boy?”

“Nothing father. I am your loyal servant, as always.”

Aerys continued to scowl at him before dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “I expect to see you at the small council meeting in half an hour.”

Rhaegar nodded and got to his feet before walking away. Aerys shuffled away and Jamie followed in his wake. The smell of perfume filled the air and Varys made his presence known.

“My King,” Varys said as he bowed low before Aerys. Aerys smiled at the eunuch. “What news does my favourite eunuch bring me today?”

Varys tittered. “A rather important northern lord was in the city a few days ago.”

Aerys frowned. “Who was it? What was he doing? Did you kill him?”

Varys giggled. “It was a certain Beron Saltstark, the heir to the Saltsmaw. As to what he was doing he was chasing down a small time, but rather successful smuggler.”

“Smuggler? What did he want with the smuggler?”

“It seems that this smuggler managed to pull off an impossible feat a few years ago. He managed to get through the Wolf’s Maw…without a pilot.”

Aerys eyes lit up. “Where is this smuggler? We can use him to take back the Wolf’s Maw!” We can rename it something better, like the Dragon’s Maw!” Aerys cackled, clearly pleased with himself.

Varys sighed sadly. “Alas your majesty, the northerner took him with him when he left King’s Landing, though what for no one knows.”

Aerys scowled, upset at how quickly his plans had been derailed. “I want him dead! I want them all dead. I want them too burn! Burn them all!”

Aerys shuffled away, muttering to himself.

An hour later Jamie was standing by the wall of the small council chambers while the lords of the small council argued amongst themselves. There were eight seats in the room, but only six of them were filled. The first was filled by Aerys. To his right sat Rhaegar, and the seat to his left, the seat of the Hand to the King was empty. Normally Jon Connington would be sitting there, but no one had heard from him since he had sent back a rider saying he was engaging a northern host at Stoney Sept, where Robert Baratheon was said to be hiding. Next was the master of coin, Qarlton Chelstead. Next to him was the master of laws, Symond Staunton who sat across from Lucerys Velaryon, the master of ships. Varys sat next to him, who sat next to Grand Maester Pycelle. The last chair, which was also empty, belonged to Ser Gerold, but only Rhaegar knew where he was.

“So what has happened to Jon Connington’s host?” Rhaegar asked Varys as he reached for the wine pitcher in the middle of the table.

“I don’t know your grace. My little birds have been strangely silent.”

Rhaegar scowled at the Master of Whispers. His dislike for the essosi was well known. “What use is a Master of Whispers who does not know?”

“I know much my prince,” Varys simpered. “But I don’t know everything.”

“Well what do you know?” Rhaegar asked.

“I know that the rebels-”

“Traitors!” Aerys barked.

“Traitors,” Varys conceded, “Have gathered a host on the northern bank of the Trident, in preparation for a concerted push towards King’s Landing. The Riverlords have declared for Stark’s, with the exception of the Darry’s, Whent’s and their bannermen. Robert led a stormlord host north before being waylaid by first Mace Tyrell and then Jon Connington. Robert split from his host and fled west, while his host continued north. Connington pursued Robert, and his host managed to make it to the traitor’s northern host.”

“What of the troop numbers?”

“The north is said to be able to field 20,000 men. Whether or not this is actually true no one actually knows. However if their involvement in previous conflicts is anything to go by this is either a slight exaggeration or the northerners never sent their true strength. The Vale has managed to pull together another 20,000 men. The riverlords are split and as such only managed to field some 10,000 men. Robert’s host was said to be 3500 strong. By the time they meet you in battle, wherever that may be, they will number at maximum about 53500 men. If Connington manages to defeat them at Sontey Sept however, you will only be facing the 20,000 men that are camped on the Trident, who are currently under the command of Bronze Yohn Royce and a northern lord who I have never heard of.”

Rhaegar nodded. “How many men can we field?”

“Including Connington’s host…perhaps 55000 from the Dornish host you brought and the crownlands levies. But Mace Tyrell has another 100,000 men of the reach.”

Rhaegar nodded. “So what should we do?”

Lucerys Velaryon was the first to speak. “Engage their forces on the trident now before they can properly organise. We already outnumber them by 2500 men, if not more. By now Connington should have bloodied them, if not defeated them at Stoney Sept. Strike at them now, while they are still unorganised.”

“And if they defeat us on the Trident?” Qarlton Chelstead asked.

Lucerys Velaryon shrugged. “Mace has another 100,000 men sitting down the King’s Road outside of Storm’s End. Just call for them.”

Rhaegar nodded. “That could work. If only we knew what happened to Connington’s host.”

Up in the rafters a raven cackled. Jamie glanced up at the noise and his heart almost stopped in his chest.

A white raven sat there looking down at him with intelligent eyes. With intelligent _grey_ eyes. Eyes that he hadn’t seen since…

He drew his sword in a rush and jumped in front of the king. The raven just cawed as though it was amused and tilted its head at him.

It soared down to the table and landed in front of Grand Maester Pycelle. Jamie went to swat it with his sword, but was stopped by Rhaegar.

“Look!” Rhaegar said as he pointed at the raven’s legs. Two scrolls were tied around its legs. He turned to the Grand Maester and gestured at the raven. “What are you waiting for?”

With shaking hands Pycelle reached out and retrieved the first of the scrolls. He unscrolled it with shaking hands and began to read aloud.

_To The Mad King and all his sycophants,_

_Jon Connington’s host was slain to the last man. Connington lives, though he is in our tender care._

_Connington is currently held at our camp on the Trident. Come, if you’re brave enough and see if you have the strength to take him back. Lately he’s been moaning for some ‘silver prince’, whomever that may be._

_To the Mad King, the one that was once called Aerys Targaryen._

_Winter is coming for you._

_First though I will make sure you feel my pain. You will feel the anguish I had to go through. You will feel everything from my perspective…and I will build a monument to last the ages and remind the world why you do not provoke house Stark._

_We are a line of Kings 8000 years old._

_You are the least of all the dragonlords of Valyria. Your rule over these kingdoms has not even lasted 300 years, and at the rate this war is going your family’s rule will not see 284ac. To House Stark, you are no more than babes, still suckling at your mother’s teats._

_House Stark has not forgotten the debts we owe to you. We will repay you and eye for and eye, and tooth for a tooth. We will repay you blood for blood, and then some more._

_The North_ Remembers _. The North Remembers Brandon Stark. The North Remembers out lost lords and harmed heirs. The North_ Remembers.

_You consider yourselves above us, not held to the laws of gods and men. Well none who walk this earth are above the laws of gods and men and I will prove it to you. I will cast you from the throne that was forged in fire and blood and destroy the last gasps of Valyria._

_You will find that your dragonfire does not warm so well in the darkness of winter._

_You will find that your stone walls have no defence against the winter snows._

_You will find that your seven gods have no power over the Weirwood Warriors._

_So Mad King, send your armies to die. Send your soldiers to wither in the cold. Send your heir to battle, and I will prove once and for all that the direwolf is greater than the dragon._

_Finally, to the rapist they call Rhaegar, the man who was once hailed as the saviour from his father’s madness._

_How the mighty have fallen._

_For you, I will repeat the words that my son said upon his entrance to the Mad King’s lair._

_Come. Out. And. Die._

_To those who wish to live, bend the knee to Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

_To the rest of you, prepare to die._

_The Burnt Lord._

Pycelle looked up at Aerys who was quivering in rage. “Kill him! I want him dead! Burn him! Burn them all!”

“What does the other scroll say?” Rhaegar asked in small voice.

Hands quivering in fear, Pycelle reached out and grasped the remaining scroll. He pulled it from the raven’s leg, and the second it was detached the raven fluttered back up to the rafters.

Pycelle rolled open the scroll before squeaking in horror and dropping the scroll back on the table. He backed away from it and began to search the room, his eyes darting to every shadow and searching every corner.

Rhaegar reached out and unrolled the scroll for all to see.

Jamie’s heart quickened in his chest as he observed the simple drawing etched onto the black paper. A crudely drawn white eye peered back at him, and beneath it the name Aerys Targaryen was etched in white ink.

The message was clear. The White Eye was hunting. Aerys Targaryen's death was now all but assured.

Up in the rafters a raven cackled continuously, chilling Jamie to the bone.


	31. Ashara IV: Starfall II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this chapter in a physical sense. Rather it's an exploration of Ashara's thoughts.

Ashara watched coldly as her brother departed Starfall, his white cloak flapping in the wind, and a midwife trailing in his wake. She hated him. She hated all of them. Because of what he and his silver fucking prince had done, her dear sweet Ned would never warm her bed again.

Instead he would spend his days in a bed warmed by Catelyn Tully. She hated her too. And her scheming, ambitious, arrogant father. She didn’t deserve Ned. She didn’t deserve the love he would undoubtedly give her. She didn’t deserve the feel of his strong warm arms. It all should have been hers.

Arthur turned around just before he passed from view and raised his hand in farewell. She wanted to return the wave with a crude gesture, but the manners that had been hammered into her from birth prevented her from doing so.

She glared at his white cloak as it disappeared from view. In truth, none of them were worthy. Not Ser Gerold Hightower, not Ser Oswell Whent, not Ser Barristan Selmy, not Ser Llewyn Martell, not Ser Jonothor Darry, not Ser Jamie Lannister and definitely not Ser Arthur Dayne. All of them had stood by and watched as a mad man tore the realm apart. All of them had stood by and watched as Aerys had torn her life apart. All of them had stood by and watched as they had torn Ned’s life apart.

Oh how she wanted them dead. Rhaegar especially. Lyanna too. No, death would be too quick for the both of them. She wanted them to suffer as she had. She wanted them to watch as the one they loved was torn from them.

She wanted their hearts to ache as her’s did. She wanted them to miss each other’s touch as she did. And then, once they had wallowed in their misery enough, she wanted them to marry another. She had never liked Robert, indeed she had been outright disgusted by him at times, but now she hoped he got his lady love. Not for his sake, but for the sake of Lyanna’s suffering.

She wanted her to spend her life knowing how she was feeling. To being resigned to knowing that her love would never warm her bed again. Instead his warmth would be taken by another, another who she detested.

Ashara would never take another to bed again. None would be able to replace Ned.

At first Ashara had been furious at Ned. How dare he betray her for another’s bed? How dare he have lied to her? How dare he have promised to marry her once the war was done, only to renege on his word as soon as she was gone? How dare he have done as duty and honour demanded?

But then as quickly as her hate had come it had gone. She had fallen in love with him for that exact reason. He was dutiful and honourable above all else, a trait that had seen him refuse her advances more than once. When he had first refused her she had been offended, but it quickly switched to amusement when she realised why. Then it had become strangely endearing as he refused time and time again.

And then before she knew it she had fallen in love with him. He had taken her before his gods and together they had been betrothed. Why he had broken the betrothal she did not know, and when she saw him next, she planned to ask.

She did know that he would have done what honour and duty demanded and for that she loved for him. For leaving her though, and for breaking her betrothal she hated him.

Ashara looked down at the Weirwood bracelet still encircling her wrist. When she had first received the news she had wanted to tear it off, but a small part of her stayed. Now though she refused to tear it off until Ned had told her face to face why he had done what he had.

Only then could her shattered heart rest in peace. Only once she had looked him in the eyes and seen that he was finished. Only once she had heard his excuses and felt the lack of warmth from his arms could she do so. Until then she would keep it on.

She would keep it on until she was certain his love for her was dead, a fact she refused to believe.

In her rapidly growing stomach a leg kicked out. She placed her hand on her stomach feeling the life growing within. She would keep it on for her child, for the knowledge that the gods of her child’s father, and now also her, had believed in the love they had held for each other.

Until the day she knew Ned’s love was dead, or her child no longer graced the world, she would keep it on. She would keep it on, in memory of the love they once had, and the hope that it could one day be rekindled.

She left the courtyard then, most of the servants already having gone on their way. She wandered up the steps of the Palestone tower, to enter a room where her sister played with the dolls her elder brother had made for her.

Thank the gods Arthur hadn’t made them. If he had she thought she would have burnt them. She hated him. More than she could bare to acknowledge. Her whole life he had been her closest confidant and friend. Their elder brother was often consumed with whatever the heirs of lords did and so it was to Arthur she had run with her hurts and woes, it was Arthur who had consoled her and held her in his arms. Now she wanted him nothing more than dead.

Allyria ran up to her and embraced her in a soft hug, careful of the bump that graced her belly.

“How is your baby today?” She asked in the sing-song voice that only the young can muster. Ashara smiled down at her little sister. “He kicked earlier. Mayhaps if you’re very quiet he will do it again.”

Eyes shining in wonder, Allyria placed her ear gently on her stomach and scrunched her face up as she listened carefully.

“I hope you have a baby girl!” Allyria said as she continued to listen.

Ashara smiled down at her. “No, it’s going to be a boy.”

Allyria scrunched up her face in distaste causing Ashara to burst out laughing. “How do you know?” Allyria asked as she pulled away from her stomach.

“Call it a mother’s intuition.” Ashara replied.


	32. Jamie IV: Rhaegar's Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar decides on a course of action. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

The small council chambers erupted in roars and voices, and above it all that damned bird still cackled in laughter.

“We must engage now!” Lucerys was crying. “We have no choice. The Hand of the King is danger!”

“He is the Hand of the King no longer.” Aerys snarled. “For losing the battle of the bells I strip him of all titles, lands and authorities within the seven kingdoms and sentence him to exile!”

With that Aerys glared up at the cackling bird. “See!” He cried. “Your hostage is worth nothing to us!”

The bird just cackled harder. It was rally beginning to grate on Jamie’s nerves.

Rhaegar turned to his father. “No!” He almost yelled “Jon Connington is a good soldier. We need him!”

“The dragon needs no one!” Aerys snarled back.

“Then who shall be Hand?” Pycelle asked.

Aerys turned to Qarlton Chelstead. “Lord Chelstead shall be hand.”

Qarlton Chelstead paled. “Me?” He stuttered. “I am not worthy of the honour!”

“Yes you are!” Aerys snapped. “And you will do the job well or you will end up in a worse position than Connington!”

Lord Chestead nodded and accepted the pin that Aerys handed to him.

“Now what do we do about the traitors?” Varys asked.

Symond Staunton stirred. “My Lords, we all know what this war was started over. Why don’t we just give them back Lyanna Stark?”

Aerys stiffened in his seat. “The dragon concedes nothing!” He screamed. “The dragon gives nothing!”

Symond Staunton muttered an apology for his words and Aerys turned to Rhaegar. “He is right though. You caused this mess when you took the wolf bitch. Now I don’t mind it when a man takes what he wants, the gods know I did it enough…” Rhaegar stiffened in anger at Aery’s reference to what he did to his mother, “but I always fixed the messes I made. So you’ll solve this problem. Come and tell me what you have chosen to do when you’ve decided.”

With that, Aerys hopped out of his chair and shuffled from the chamber, Ser Barristan trailing in his wake.

All eyes turned to Rhaegar, who watched his father leave with sad violet eyes.

Once the door had closed behind the king, Rhaegar sighed and seemed to collapse in on himself. He slumped in his chair and placed his hand over his eyes. For a while the entire seemed to wait for him to do something, until one could bare the silence no longer.

“So what do we do?” Staunton asked.

Rhaegar glanced up at him. “I don’t know.”

Lucerys Velaryon leaned forward. “We have to move now, before they manage to organise themselves!”

Rhaegar rolled his eyes at him, before slipping back into silence.

“Lord Velaryon is right My Prince.” Varys simpered.

Rhaegar glared at him. “You have confessed that you know nothing of their army at the moment. What advice can you give that we can already not figure out from that letter?”

Varys tittered. “I may not know much of the northern army in Westeros, but I do know of the northern army in Essos.”

Qarlton Chelstead frowned. “You mean the Company of the Rose?”

Varys nodded. “If we wait, then it will give the northerners time to recall the company, bolstering their forces by another 20,000 men.”

Qarlton Chelstead frowned. “Is the Company of the Rose that powerful?”

Pycelle nodded and stroked his beard. “Yes…yes it is. It has been where most of the north’s second and third sons have gone to find glory and honour, and many of them stay on for life, taking wives and raising children within the company.”

“They also have a very close relationship with Braavos.” Varys supplied, “In exchange for homes for the families of their soldiers, the company acts as Braavos’s private army. It is entirely possible that the Braavosi will support the northern war effort, especially when considering their trade and military ties. If we strike now we will still have the advantage. Their troops are currently battle weary, having already fought Connington’s host of 15000 men. Our troops are fresh. To give them more time would only allow them time to pull in more troops, and refreshen their already tired troops.”

The room sat in silence as Rhaegar pondered what Varys had said. Finally he lifted his head and looked the Hand of the King in the eye.

“Call every soldier available to us within 20 leagues. We will march on them at the Trident now. Hopefully Connington managed to bloody them enough that their forces are depleted. We will take no risks though. Send word to Mace Tyrell. I want 20000 men under the command of Randyll Tarly following me up the Kingsroad. By the time I get to the Trident we should have 70,000 men to confront the rebels with. If that’s not enough, then we’re doomed.”

With that Rhaegar get up from his seat and stormed from the room.

Up in the rafters the white raven, which had remained silent for a while, began to cackle again.

Varys glanced up at the bird. He stood up and peered closely at the bird, before giggling. “Is that you Lord Rickard? Are you the one in that birds little head?”

To everyone’s surprise the bird replied. “ _Spider._ ” It said as it hopped about. “ _Come out and die! Come out and die! Come out and die!”_

It cackled, clearly very pleased with itself.

“You mean that Lord Rickard was listening on in this conversation?!” Symond Staunton stuttered as he stared at the bird in horror. “He’ll march his troops down to meet us before Tarly can reinforce us!”

Varys shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, does it Lord Rickard? You want us to meet you on the Trident don’t you? You don’t care how many you have to face do you?”

The bird cackled again. _“Trident.”_ It preened. _“Come and die! Come out and die! Come out and die!”_

“What game are you playing at Lord Rickard?” Varys asked.

The bird stopped hopping around and looked down at Varys. _“Game!_ ” It called, _“I know! I know! I know Illyrio!”_

To Jamie’s amazement the normally unreadable Master of Whispers looked incredibly shaken, as though someone had just told him someone he loved was dead.

With that the bird stretched its wings and soared out of the window, rapidly disappearing into the sky.


	33. Davos II: Relief of Storm's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos goes sailing. Make sure you read the update from earlier today before reading this one. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Davos’s little boat cut through the choppy waters, laden down with northern soldiers and foodstuffs. Beron had filled his ship with grain, salted beef, onions and net fulls of fresh fish. He had also given him 20 men who were to replace the worst of the existing garrison.

His black sails fluttered in the twilight wind, and in the distance he warily watched the Redwyne fleet that was meant to be enforcing the blockade. Beron had promised a distraction, but as such, one had yet to come. He tacked in the wind, not wanting to push further without Beron’s promised distraction.

They sat circling the same spot for ten minutes before the distraction came. And what a distraction it was.

The animal, a whale, the likes of which Davos had only seen in the deepest northern waters erupted from the water next to a ship and fell onto it, causing the ship to split in half and begin to rapidly sink.

The rest of the fleet began to immediately converge on the wreckage of the sunken ship and search for the surviors.

“By the gods…” Davos whispered. “How do you do that?”

The northman next to him, a man by the name of Abel glanced at him amused. “It’s what wargs do. Some lucky chap somewhere was born with a gods-given gift and managed to make friends with that monster. Now it will do as he asks.”

Davos watched as the last remnants of the shattered ship began to sink beneath the waves. Suddenly the whale resurfaced, almost 200 yards away and smashed itself against another ship. The results were similar to the first and Davos watched as more men were sent to their deaths beneath the waves.

“Will we be going now?” Abel asked in a bored tone.

Davos stirred himself form where he watched the whale in horrified fascination and turned back to his ship. In the distance he could just make out the stone walls of Storm’s End perched upon the basalt cliffs. Somewhere in that jagged mass of stone was a narrow cave which had direct access to Storm’s End, and it was his job to find it, and then get in and out of it.

Sending a prayer up to the gods one last time he began to pull taut the lines of his black sails, causing his ship to begin to skim lightly over the waves, towards his destination. The northmen in the ship stirred in anticipation as they passed the sea stacks that littered shipbreaker bay.

Davos tied his lines to their post, locking the sails in position, and ensuring the wind would continue to fuel their journey into and out of the accursed cave. He placed his hand on the tiller and turned aorudn one last time to see what had happened to Paxter Redwyne’s fleet.

He wished he hadn’t. The whale had sunk another two ships, and three more had somehow been set on fire. As he watched though, he saw how. Eagles carrying pots of burning oil were flitting through the night sky emptying their loads on the ships. Far to the east the northern fleet had begun to engage the reachmen fleet.

While there may have been more arbour ships that were larger and better armed, it aided them to no avail in the poor light. In many cases, it was actually working against them, as they got in each other’s way. One ship had manged to breakout of the gridlock of the arbour fleet and was pursuing a smaller northern ship. The northern ship was faster however, and had soon dragged it out away from the protection of the other ships. Out of the night, drifted more northern ships and they surrounded it and attacked, in a style that reminded Davos of the time he had seen a pack of wolves hunt a deer.

When he remembered who the fleet belonged to it sent shivers down his spine. The Stark’s truly were wolves, in all they did. He turned back towards the front of his ship, away from the carnage behind him and steered his little craft through the waters.

“There!” Abel whispered as he pointed to an inky black cavity in the cliff face in front of them. Davos nodded to indicate he had seen and began to adjust the tiller to accommodate his route. Davos’s heart leapt into his throat when he felt the hull of his ship grind against the stone beneath the surface of the waves. A sea stack suddenly loomed out of the late night mist and he was forced to swing the tiller hard to avoid a collision causing one of the northerners to fall into the frigid waters.

He turned to Abel who shook his head. “We need to continue.” Abel said as he looked back mournfully. “We all knew the risks of this job when we volunteered. We all expected to either die of drowning or on the end of a Reachmen’s spear.”

Davos nodded numbly, still horrified by the life he had left behind.

The next few minutes were spent in frantic concentration from all men on board as they searched the seas for more stone, desperate to avoid a repeat of the incidence minutes before. Thankfully it was soon over as Davos guided the craft into the small cave. Torches lit a pier which was almost 50 yards in front of them. Two guards were standing at attention and stiffened when they saw the black sailed craft enter the cove. Immediately they readied their weapons while shouting to their unseen companions.

Four more men rushed down onto their pier, clutching their spear tightly. As their boat drifted closer, Davos could see the emaciated frames their armour had been hiding. Clearly these men had been wanting for food for a while.

“Hoy!” Abel called as he moved to the prow. “We come with men and food to relieve the castle!”

On the pier the men squinted suspiciously. “Who are you?” One asked.

“We’re Lord Stark’s men. Our fleet it engaging the Redwyne fleet as we speak. We don’t have long before they will need to flee. Permission to land?”

The men on the pier collapsed to their knees in relief when they heard who it was. One of them was sobbing like a child, tears streaming down his face.

“Permission granted!” One managed to stutter out.

Davos moved the craft forward again and pulled it up at the pier. He moved from his post and threw the ropes to the men on the pier, who immediately fixed his ship to the posts.

Abel jumped from the ship and onto the pier, greeting the men with firm handshakes. “Where is Lord Stannis?” He asked.

“Here.” A voice replied and Davos turned to see an incredibly gaunt man descending the staircase that led to Storm’s End. His eyes were sunken into his skull, his close cropped beard no more than a shadow across his hollow cheeks and bony jawbone. Yet there was power in his stare, an iron ferocity that told Davos that Mace Tyrell would never take this castle while Stannis was still able to swing a sword. He would fight to the last, and then some more.

“Who are you?” Stannis asked as he alighted on the pier. Abel turned to him. “We’re Lord Stark’s men, under the command of Beron Saltstark, heir to Saltsmaw and admiral of the Eastern fleet.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to deliver food, evacuate the sick and wounded and relieve the garrison.”

Stannis scowled suspiciously. “Your Ned Stark’s men you say?”

Abel nodded. “Yes.”

Stannis’s face twisted in distaste, as though the idea of accepting help from Ned Stark was abhorrent. “I’ll take the food but none of Ned Stark’s men will walk these walls.”

Abel stared at him in shock. “But what of your sick and wounded?” He exclaimed. “What of your young and old? We’ve come to help you!”

Stannis stubbornly shook his head. “I will not have it be said that I could not defend my own walls with my own men.”

One of the northerners behind Davos scoffed. “Then you’ll doom all your men to die!”

Stannis glared at the offending man before switching his cool gaze back to Abel. “I will hold my own walls. Thank you for the food, but I cannot accept your men.”

Abel turned to Davos, showing the same look of sad regret that had been on his face when his colleague had been washed overboard. Davos felt a sudden wave of anger and sadness. He wondered if Abel had known the man who had been washed overboard. He jumped off the ship and landed in front of Stannis.

“Now listen here Lord Stannis! I didn’t make my way through these waters in the dead of night, risking my life and the lives of all the men on board to have you say no. Beron Saltstark didn’t attack Paxtor Redwyne’s fleet when he was outnumbered by two to one for you to say no! I lost one man from a craft of twenty! How many men do you think Beron lost giving me the opportunity to get in here? Do you know what Abel told me when we lost our first man? He said we all knew the risks, we all knew we’d either end up drowned or on the end of a Reachmen’s spear. These men expect to, and are prepared to, die for you! Do not repay their sacrifice by attempting to appease whatever petty insecurities you have yourself.”

A soon as Davos had finished speaking he mentally kicked himself. He had gone too far. He was just a commoner from Fleabottom, with a Fleabottom accent to boot. He had no lord’s protection and this man could have him killed.

“You’re not a northerner, are you?” Stannis asked with a curious glint in his eyes.

“No.” Davos said as he watched him closely. To his surprise the man seemed more impressed than angry at Davos.

“What’s your name?”

“Davos.”

“Davos who?”

Davos shrugged. “Davos the smuggler. I’m just a commoner from Fleabottom.”

Stannis frowned thoughtfully. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I know what it’s like to go without food Lord Stannis and it’s a fate I would wish upon no one. When Beron offered me an opportunity to help a starving man I couldn’t say no.”

“You know Beron?”

Davos shifted while behind him the northerners laughed. “We’re familiar.”

“Aye!” Abel called, “Familiar with sight of Beron bearing down on him while he’s hauling smuggled goods!”

To Davos’s surprise a glint of amusement showed in Stannis’s eyes. He turned to the northerners. “Very well. You can enter, but no man of my original garrison will leave this castle until the siege is lifted or the Reachmen are swarming over our walls.”

Abel nodded and began directing his men to unload the food. Daovs helped and soon the ship was empty once more. Davos turned to back Abel. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.” He said as he got back onto his boat, “With more men and more food.”

Abel nodded. “When you see Beron tell him of Weslar’s death.”

“Did you know him well?” Davos asked.

Abel shook his head. “No I didn’t. Beron did though.”

Davos nodded and turned to go when Abel called his name once more. He turned to see him looking at him with respect. “Thank you for what you did with Lord Stannis. I don’t what I would have said to him.”

Davos nodded one last time before hopping back onto his boat and sailing his boat out of the cove.

Hours later he dragged his ship ashore, miles north of Storm’s End to find Beron Saltstark waiting for him.

“How did you go?” Beron asked.

“Good.” Davos replied. “All the food was unloaded and the men went to their posts.”

“Were there no wounded?”

“Stannis refused to allow any of his men to leave. He said he would not have it said that he could not defend his walls with his own men.”

Beron laughed. “He always was a prickly bastard.”

Davos nodded. “He does seem the type. How did you go?”

Beron smile dropped. “We lost seven ships.”

“How many did they lose?”

“Seventeen.”

“Well then you did well!”

“No. My brother was captain of one of the ships that went down.”

“Oh.” Davos said suddenly remembering another man. “Abel said to tell you that we lost a man by the name of Weslar.”

Beron stopped and looked him in the eye. His face was white, and his hands were shaking. “No.” He whispered. “Tell me you’re japing! Please!”

“I’m sorry Beron, I’m not. Did you know him well?”

“Know him well?” Beron cried. “He was my younger brother!”

The man collapsed into sobs. “I have no more brothers now.” He managed to gasp out.

A wave of compassion for the younger man suddenly overcame Davos. “I’m sorry Beron.” He murmured as he patted his back consolingly. “I don’t know of many of the burdens you will bare as lord, but I do know the burdens of a man who has lost his brother.”

Beron looked up at him with tear swollen eyes. “Did you lose a brother too?” He asked.

“Aye.” Davos replied. “He was young when he wanted to join me on one of my smuggling ventures. Only a lad of sixteen, but as spirited as they came. His maiden voyage and we got caught in a storm. It was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Waves as tall as castle walls, and rain so heavy it was hard to breathe. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. My father died of a broken heart not long afterwards.”

Beron looked out to the sea, where the sun was just beginning to rise. “You know of the burdens of man who has lost his brother. I would have you know of the burdens of lordship as well Davos. When the war is over, seek me out and I will personally petition Lord Stark to give you lands worthy of a man of your worth. And if he refuses me I shall petition the king. And if he refuses me I shall bear no children and name you the heir of the Saltsmaw.”


	34. Arthur II: To Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Oswell have an identity crisis. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!

The campfire flickered in the dying light, causing the shadows of the desert to dance around them. Ser Gerold was with the girl in the tower after she had attempted to escape again. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she was seven months pregnant, she was determined to steal a horse and pursue Rhaegar to King’s Landing. She swore she could end the war if only she was given the chance.

Stupid girl. It was all too late. Rickard Stark would not roll over and die now, not when he had lost his eldest son. Eddard Stark would not call back his armies, not now that he had married the Tully wench.

Plus, he didn’t want the war to end. He wanted a reckoning with Ned Stark for leaving a bastard in his sister’s belly and filling her head with empty promises of love and marriage.

_Isn’t that what Rhaegar did?_

The voice sprung into his head unbidden, so clear that Arthur could have sworn someone had whispered it in his ear. He looked up, but Oswell was quiet, just staring blankly into the flames. No sounds had come from the tower either, and Arthur turned to look behind him. Nothing was there but sand and scrub.

His movement drew the attention of Oswell who looked up at him. “Something wrong?” Oswell asked as he reached for his blade.

Arthur’s eyes continued to search the darkness, looking for whatever had whispered that thought into his ear. Eventually he turned around and looked back at Oswell. “No.” He replied. “I thought I heard something.”

Oswell nodded. “You’ve spent too much time around Targaryen’s Arthur. You’re beginning to pick up their madness.”

Arthur scowled at him. “I only spend much time around Rhaegar.”

“Exactly.” Oswell replied. The men sat in silence for a while, contemplating Oswell’s words until Oswell stirred again. “Do you know what we’re sitting in this desert for?” He suddenly snapped.

Arthur watched him as he threw a blade of grass into the flames. His brow was furrowed and he looked angry. Oswell looked up at him when he did not respond. “Prophecy!” He all but spat. “Because Rhaegar thinks that that… _girl_ …, the one we’ve locked in that tower, will give him some magical daughter who will throw back the mythical demons of the far north! What was wrong with the children Elia gave him? Were they not magical enough for him?! Now because of his obsession with whatever book he read, I’m sitting in the middle of a desert while my brother and his soldiers are fighting a war!”

“Do not speak of Elia Martell.” Arthur hissed as he closed his eyes.

“It’s Elia _Targaryen_ Arthur. She has two children, and is one of the kindest soul in the world.”

“Do not speak of Elia.” Arthur hissed as he glared at his old friend.

“Why?” Oswell challenged. “Why shouldn’t I? I swore an oath to protect the entire royal family and last I checked that included Elia and h-”

“DO NOT SPEAK OF ELIA!” Arthur roared as he threw himself at his old friend. They grappled in the sand, throwing punches and trying to hurt each other as much as possible. Oswell grinned savagely as he landed a particularly good punch into Arthur’s stomach. Arthur growled in response and landed a punch on Oswell’s jaw that wiped that stupid, ever present, annoying smirk off his face. He went to punch him again when a firm grip grabbed him by the back of his collar and threw him off Oswell.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Ser Gerold Hightower hissed as he bulled his way in-between them. Neither of them answered for the longest time, just glaring at each other. “Someone better tell me right now or I’ll make you two the first Kingsguard in all history to be retired!”

With a smile as blinding as it was fake, Oswell turned to Gerold and grinned. “Why it was only a friendly scrap between old friends trying to keep up their brawling skills while stuck in the middle of the desert!”

Gerold squinted at Arthur suspiciously, who forced a shaky grin to his face and nodded along with Oswell. It would do no good for Ser Gerold to know what the fight had really been over. Nothing good would come of The White Bull knowing Arthur’s private thoughts. That could only lead to more problems, and the gods knew they already had enough.

Ser Gerold glared at the both of them before turning away. “I better not catch you doing it again! If you want to practise something, practise your swordplay.”

“Of course Lord Commander!” Oswell yelled at Ser Gerold’s retreating figure before turning to back to Arthur with a glare so mean it could melt ice.

He turned back to the fire and began to poke at the shifting coals.

Arthur resumed his seat on the other side of the fire and pulled out Dawn from its gilded scabbard. He picked up his whetstone and began to run it down the milkglass blade, letting the rhythm run through him, allowing the sound to fill his ears. Already he could feel himself calming down. The blood was no longer rushing through his ears as fast and his hands were no longer trembling.

“I’m sorry.” He said as he looked at Ser Oswell. Oswell glanced up but otherwise continued to ignore him. The two sat in silence for a long while, listening to the desert come alive around them.

“Why?” Oswell asked breaking the tranquillity around them.

Arthur shifted his gaze away from the stars and back to Oswell. He sighed and lay back on the sands.

“I loved her.” Arthur replied wistfully. “I loved her and she loved me. If I remember her I fear I may not remember my oaths. I learnt long ago that she and my oaths cannot co-exist. So I chose my oaths and the more I think about her the harder it is to abide by them. I fear that if I spend too much time thinking about her when the time finally comes, when whoever comes to get her comes, I will not fulfil my oaths.”

Oswell sighed. “Will you stop them or let them pass?”

“That’s what I fear. If Rhaegar returns I fear all he will find is blood and bones. He will find a missing babe, a dead mistress and an absent Sword of The Morning.”

“And if someone else comes?”

“I’m afraid I’ll let them pass.” Arthur thought for a minute. “Apart from Ned Stark. He I will never let pass. That one is personal.”

Oswell grunted in reply. “To oaths!” He mocked as he raised his water canteen.

“To oaths!” Arthur replied as he raised his own.

Minutes later he heard yelling from the tower and rolled his eyes. She was clearly upset over something. He turned to the tower to see her descending the rickety staircase, her belly swollen with Rhaegar’s offspring.

Oswell groaned. “How far do you reckon she’s going to get now?”

Arthur laughed mirthlessly.

“I just want some air! You haven’t let me out of the tower in two weeks!” She was screaming.

“And for good reason!” Ser Gerold screamed back. “The last time you were out of the tower you tried to steal a horse!”

“Just give me ten minutes!”

Ser Gerold rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated with the girl. “Ser Arthur!” He called.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and grabbed his sword. “Yes?”

“Take the girl for a walk.”

“Me?” Arthur asked incredulously.

“Yes you!”

“Why me?”

“Cause you swore an oath to obey your Lord Commander and I’m telling you too!”

Arthur turned to Oswell who smirked and raised his canteen. The words passed unspoken between them.

_To Oaths._

He raised his canteen back to Oswell and went to do as his Lord Commander bid. She had reached the bottom of the stairs by the time he had gotten there and he held out an arm for him to grasp. She refused and made her way to the desert floor by herself. Sighing in exasperation he followed her off into the desert. She walked for five minutes until the campfire was a tiny speck behind them.

“Did you grow up near here Arthur?” She asked suddenly, catching him off guard.

“Yes.” Arthur replied shortly. He had no wish to engage in conversation with this girl and he hoped she understood that. Unfortunately it seemed she did not get the signs, or she just chose to ignore them.

“Weren’t you hot? It gets so hot here during the day. Nothing like back home in Winterfell. I miss the cold of Winterfell.”

“Maybe you should have stayed then.” Arthur spat.

The girl had the cheek to smile at him!

“I fear I have done something to cause you to be upset at me. Please tell me if I have.”

“Upset me?” Arthur asked his eyebrows. “Yes you have upset me! Because you chose to run away with Rhaegar the realm is in a state of war. Because you chose to run away my brother and father will soon be on the field of battle fighting _your_ brother and father. Because you chose to run away my sister will never get to marry the man she wants to! Instead he was married to your _dead_ brother’s betrothed all so your father could have his troops! So excuse me if I seem a little bit cold, but you have doomed thousands of men to death and just as many women to mourning because you could not resist a pretty face and a silky voice!”

To Arthur’s great surprise his words seemed to stir something in the girl, whose face drained of colour and tears sprung into her eyes.

“I know what I have done.” She said hoarsely. “I know who I have doomed to death. But there is war coming…one my child will be key in!”

Arthur’s jaw clenched when he heard those words. He turned his head away from her in order not to murder her. How could she be so callous about it? Did she not see what Rhaegar was?”

“I have known Rhaegar for far longer than any other man on this earth. I know his innermost thoughts, his greatest insecurities and his proudest moments. For many of them I have been beside him. I know him better than I know my own brothers and sisters. As much as it pains me to say this you a reciting the words of a madman. Rhaegar may not have the madness of his father, but he has a madness regardless. He is a better mummer than Aerys, which is all. The words he speaks are lies. You have doomed us all for nothing!”

The girl’s bottom lip quivered. Arthur bowed low. “So my _queen_ ,” He all but spat, “I believe it is time to return to the tower!”

He turned to go when he was stopped by a whisper so faint he didn’t think he had heard it at first.

“Excuse me?” He asked with a frown.

“Thank you.” She said with a quavering voice.

“Thank you?” He asked. “Thank you for what?”

“For telling the truth to me.” She replied as she lifted her chin high, daring him to contradict her. “Thank you for telling me the truth when no one else would.”

Arthur swallowed before nodding. “If only you had of realised the truth back at Harrenhall.”

“If only…” Lyanna murmured before setting off in the direction of the tower. Arthur trailed in her wake, his insides torn at the betrayal he had just committed.

_Forgive me Rhaegar,_ He thought, _but someone needs to save you two from yourselves._


	35. Jon II: The Wolves of War I

Jon Arryn walked towards the command tent of the rebel host that was camped upon the Trident. They had managed to consolidate much of their forces, and their host now numbered 83,500 men. The bulk of their forces, some 50,000 men, were all northerners. Furthermore, Rickard Stark had sworn he had more men to the East and West, as well as a spare 40,000 sitting back home in the North. Truth be told the armies the north could field were staggering and Jon was glad that he was not on the Targaryen’s side.

What’s more the armies the north fielded were professional, hardy and well trained men. Indeed in a conversation with Ned, he had been informed that all boys in the north are trained with the bow from five years of age, the spear from ten years of age, and a weapon of their own choice once they had turned fifteen. Many had chosen either the sword of the axe it seemed as it was clearly the most prevalent weapon amongst the northerners. Even stranger though was the women that lived, ate and trained alongside the male counterparts. Many of them were from some place called Bear Island it seemed, and they were just as hardy as the men, if not more so.

As he approached the Command Tent he observed the two silent sentinels that stood guard. Both of them were members of a northern institution called the Weirwood Warriors and they terrified Jon. He had seen them in the practice yard and they were maelstroms of destruction, with not even Robert able to hold his own against the smallest of them. Furthermore each of them was accompanied by a fearsome wolf, and the higher ranking members often had other animals as well. He had seen all manner of animals accompany the warriors, from bears to eagles, from snakes to the shadowcats that could be found in the mountains of the moon.

Jon shivered as he passed between them, their eyes watching him from beneath their helms. He pulled open the tent and stepped inside. Assembled around a vast table were the commanders and leaders of the rebel host.

At the head of the table was Rickard Stark himself, covered in full dark grey plate armour and with his Valyrian Steel sword strapped over his shoulder. To his left was the man the northerners called Rodrick Walton, the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, and to his right was his son, Ned, a boy that Jon loved as if he was his own son. Next to Ned stood Robert, his antlered helm clasped in one hand, and his giant war hammer clasped in the other. Ever since the fight at Stoney Sept he had become more focused. He no longer laughed as much, and his eyes didn’t twinkle as they once did. Jon’s own retinue was next, composed of Bronze Yohn Royce and Lord Corbray. The riverlords made up the final portion of the command tent, composed of Hoster and Brynden Tully and Tytos Blackwood.

He took his place at the table between Bronze Yohn and Lord Corbray and Rickard nodded in acknowledgment of his presence.

“We have received word from inside the Red Keep.” Rickard said as he stroked the White Raven that sat on his shoulder. “Rhaegar plans to meet us on the trident as we wanted.”

“Good.” Robert snarled as he clenched his fist around his hamer. “Just give me a shot at him and he’ll fall.”

Rickard glanced at the young lord but continued as though he hadn’t interrupted. “He has 55000 men from Dorne and The Crownlands as well as the southern Riverlords and Northern Stormlands. On top of that, he’s called for a further 20,000 men from the Mace Tyrell’s host at Storm’s End. They plan to meet just before they arrive at the Trident.”

“We still outnumber them.” Lord Hoster said, “and we have the advantage of having gotten to choose the battle ground.”

“Your right.” Rickard conceded, “But how many more men will we lose if we allow their host to converge?”

Hoster grunted in response before taking a swig of his ale. “So what do you suggest we do?” He asked.

“If I may make a suggestion,” Rodrick Walton said as he leaned forward, “Send me and my men after the host. I’ll ensure that they never reach Rhaegar and give you the opportunity to do as you please.”

Rickard looked at him shrewdly. “Would you take all 3000 of your men?”

“Yes.” Rodrick nodded. At this Lord Corbray burst out laughing. “You think you can take down a host of 20,000 men with only 3000?”

“Yes.” Rodrick said, clearly unpertubed.

“You’re crazy!” Lord Corbray exclaimed. “You’ll be leading you’re men to an early grave! Men we could better use here!”

Robert laughed darkly. “The only men heading to an early grave will be the Reachmen! I’ve seen these men fight and they fight like gods among mortals!”

Rodrick glanced at his liege lord, who was staring back at Rodrick deep in thought. “I assure My Lord, I will not fail you.”

“I believe you.” Rickard said. “Take your men and leave at first light. Take Ned with you.”

“Me?” Ned asked.

“Yes Ned, you’ll be going with him. The Weirwood Warriors are taught not to surrender. If it goes bad, they’ll need someone to order them to leave.”

At this Rodrick began to protest, but Rickard silenced him with a steely gaze.

Ned nodded and glanced at Jon. Jon smiled encouragingly. If he had to pick anyone to do the job, he would have picked Ned as well. He had a good head on his shoulders, and knew his way around a battlefield.

“Now,” Rickard said as he turned to the doorway, “onto the next order of business. Wendel!”

At his name, a man appeared in the doorway, escorting a man who had been blindfolded, gagged and had his hands bound. He threw him forward onto the floor before turning back to Rickard, who nodded at him. “Thank you.” He said, “Now bring me Connington and Bolton.”

The man nodded and rushed away to do his bidding. Rickard stood up and slowly began to make his way down to the bound and gagged man, who had begun to squirm in terror.

“This man here,” Rickard said as he made his way past Jon, “is a Targaryen spy we decided to let live. We have brought him here today so he can see what happens to those who stand in my way.”

Rickard stopped before the man and looked down at him. He reached down and hauled him to his feet, before dragging him to the head of the table and sitting him down. He drew a knife from his belt and laid it on the man’s throats. The man stiffened and began to breathe heavily. He swallowed and his adam’s apple bobbed.

“My men have killed all the other spies, outriders and scouts sent to look for us, but this one we kept alive.”

With that he swiftly moved the dagger up and cut the bindings around the man’s eyes and mouth. The cloth fell away, and the man’s widespread eyes followed the path of the knife as Rickard gently dragged it down the side of his face. Rickard smiled suddenly, and as quick as the knife had appeared it was gone.

He turned to the refreshment’s table were wine and food was piled. He poured a cup of mead and filled a plate with roast beef and roasted vegetables before placing it in front of the captured spy.

“Eat!” He barked. “You’ll need your strength.”

The spy looked at the food suspiciously before shaking his head. “No.” He said.

Rickard rolled his eyes. “You just watched me prepare it. There’s no poison in it.”

The man still refused so Rickard shrugged and took the food and wine for himself.

“What’s your name?” Rickard asked as he chewed on the some of the roast beef.

“Clayton.”

“Do you know who I am Clayton?”

Clayton nodded. “You’re the one they call The Burnt Lord.”

Rickard smiled thinly. “Aye. That I am. Do you know anyone else here?”

Clayton shifted his gaze to the rest of the table and nodded.

“Who do you know?” Rickard asked.

Clayton nodded to Robert. “The usurper.” At this Robert scowled deeply.

“Anyone else?” Rickard asked before Robert could argue with the man.

“Ned Stark. Jon Arryn. Hoster Tully.” Clayton replied as he nodded to each in turn.

Rickard made an attempt at smiling warmly, but on his burnt face it came out as more of a scowl. “Well let me introduce you to the rest of us. This is Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone. Next to him is Lord Corbray, lord of Heart’s Home. The two other riverlords are Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully and Lord Tytos Blackwood, lord of Raventree hall.”

“And him?” Clayton asked as he nodded to Rodrick.

“That’s Rodrick.” Rickard said as he gulped down a mouthful of wine.

“Rodrick who?” He asked.

“He’s just Rodrick to you.” Rickard said with a steely voice and Clayton got the message.

The door opened again and Wendel re-entered, dragging along Jon Connington and followed by a pale skinned Leech Lord.

“Ah!” Rickard cried. “Just in time! Thank you Wendel!”

Wendel nodded and left the tent once more. Roose Bolton came forward and stood by Connington’s side. Connington had been treated rather well, his only injury being a black eye he had gotten in the fight with Robert. Regardless he had been gagged. He knew things that Rickard clearly didn’t want this man to know of. Rickard turned back to Clayton who was watching proceedings with a wide eyed stare. “Do you recognise these two?” He asked as he finished his last mouthful of beef.

Clayton nodded once more. “Lord Connington and… Lord Bolton.”

“Good. Do you know what the Bolton’s are famous for in the North?”

Clayton swallowed audibly, before nodding once more. “Flaying.” He whispered.

Rickard nodded before getting back to his feet and gesturing for Lord Bolton to continue. The leech lord reached into his belt and pulled out two thin knives and a meat cleaver. Rickard dragged Connington over to the table and pushed his hands onto the table. Bolton raised his meat cleaver and swung it down.

Connington’s littlest finger detached from his left hand. Conningotn screamed into his gag and his eyes watered in pain. Very quickly he fainted and Rickard snorted. “Weak man.” He spat as he glared upon the griffin lords contorted face.

He picked up the finger and placed it a leather pouch before handing it to Clayton. Clayton took it with shaking hands. “I want you to deliver this to Rhaegar. Tell him with everyday that he does not show up, Connington shall lose another digit. He only has 19 days left before Connington runs out of spare digits. He had better hurry, cause once he’s out of digits I run out of patience.” At this Rickard lowered his voice and leaned in towards Clayton. “You don’t want to know what happens then. So hurry.”

With that Rickard stood and called for Wendel. The man renentered and bowed his head to his liege lord.

“Escort him to the Ivy Inn and let him go.” Wendel nodded and made for the spy. Rickard turned away and stormed out of the tent, Connington's blood still dripping from his hands.


	36. Jamie V: Rhaegar's Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar leaves King's Landing. Please make sure you read the chapter I poster earlier today, it explains a lot about the actions of the people in this chapter.

In the courtyard of the Red Keep soldiers dressed in the red and black livery of house Targaryen rushed around, fulfilling last minute tasks before the host’s departure. The host itself, a mass of men 55000 strong, was camped on the northern side of the city, at a constant state of alertness.

To begin with the army’s commanders had sent the outriders north to scout out the enemy camp. Only one man had returned, spouting tales of the land itself fighting against them. Attacks by wolves, bears, eagles and men that seemed to melt out of the ground itself.

He had been captured he had said. According to his tales he had been blindfolded and taken to a tent where the commanders of the rebel host were. Present was Lord Rickard Stark his son Eddard, along with Jon Arryn, the usurper Robert Baratheon, Lord Tytos Blackwood, Hoster and Brynden Tully, Lord’s Corbray and Royce and the most mysterious of them all, a man that the outrider was told only went by the name of Roderick. Varys had been in a panic trying to find out as much as he could about the man, but if his increasingly frantic state had anything to say of the state of his investigation it was not going well.

The most horrifying thing the man had told stories of though was the finger he had carted back in a little leather pouch, that he said had been placed into his hands by Rickard Stark himself. He had said that it belonged to Jon Connington, and it had been taken from him in front of his eyes, by none other than Roose Bolton, the leech lord himself.

The most chilling thing about the whole affair though was the promise of more fingers to come if Rhaegar did not hurry up and come to the Trident, and thus, the reason for the state of affairs on this particular day. Rhaegar must have cared for Jon deeply to be in this much of a rush, because he was setting off without a proper baggage train, only taking the bare necessities to get him to the trident.

According to Rhaegar once he had defeated the rebels, he would be able to take their stores. Rickard’s actions against Jon Connington seemed to have lit a fire within Rhaegar. He had stormed around the keep all morning, bellowing for this and that, and in the end only getting in the way. Jamie had even caught him cursing Rickard Stark, and swearing to have his head regardless of Lyanna’s wishes. It was the first time that Jamie had even heard Rhaegar acknowledge that he knew where the girl was. Rickard Stark had clearly angered the otherwise quiet man. In Jamie’s opinion, it meant that Rhaegar was rushing into the battle unprepared, which was part of the reason why Jamie so desperately wanted to go.

Thinking of Rickard Stark sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine. He could still remember those steely grey eyes glaring at Aerys as a certain Stark was forced to his knees. He could still remember the disconcerting feeling of seeing those same steely grey eyes staring at him out of that Raven’s head. In truth no man terrified Jamie more, not even Aerys, nor his own father.

Not just any man could survive burning by wildfire, and then not only recover, but recover enough to lead armies against those who burned him. Not just any man could crush entire hosts without any surivors. Not just any man could commit the atrocities that Rickard Stark had committed in his path to vengeance and still sleep at night.

Rhaegar walked out of the Red Keep now, towards his fine coal black stallion and Jamie knew it was now or never. He rushed forward, making to intercept the prince before he could mount his stallion.

“Prince Rhaegar!” He called as he approached the silver prince. Rhaegar’s eyes switched to observe the young Kingsguard marching towards him. “Ser Jamie.” Rhaegar greeted as he nodded his head at him. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to come with you.” Jamie announced with a thundering heart. Rhaegar smiled sadly. “We both know that’s not possible. A Kingsguard needs to be here to protect the remaining royal family.”

“Please Rhaegar!” Jamie begged, forgetting all sense of decorum in his desperateness. Rhaegar looked down upon Jamie with pity.

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour."

Jaime's anger had risen up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

He strode away and mounted his horse. “Varys!” He bellowed as the master of whispers entered the courtyard.

Varys hurried over, his slipper clad feet making a scuffing sound on the red stone floor. “My Prince.” He simpered as he bowed low.

“What can you tell me of this Roderick fellow?” Rhaegar snapped.

“Not much.” Varys replied. “My little birds have found out about a place called Starpoint, a northern military installation. I do not know much about it, but it is possible that this Roderick fellow is the leader of whatever troops come from this place.”

Rhaegar nodded. “And what can you tell me of the troops themselves? The ones that are commanded by this Roderick fellow?”

“Nothing.” Varys stated. “I could find nothing. As such treat them as killers of the highest order. If not even I can find out about them, they are either so bad it is below my notice, or they are so good they know how to evade my spies, and when taking recent events into consideration, I am personally led to believe it is the latter.”

Rhaegar nodded before slamming down his helm. “If your little birds send any more word of these troops, or have any information worth knowing send it on.”

Varys bowed low once more. “Of course.”

With that Rhaegar spurred his horse and charged out of the Red Keep’s gate, his retinue following in his wake.

Jamie watched from the battlements as Rhaegar made his way through the city. Outside the city walls Rhaegar’s host had packed up and assembled into a long winding column. As Rhaegar joined them, the horns blew and slowly the great winding mass began to move.

He stood there for the next few hours, as the sun rose in the sky and the column disappeared over the horizon, heading to battle, and ultimately death or glory.


	37. Davos III: Stewing with Stannis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis and Davos have a conversation. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Davos guided his boat into the now familiar cove, his black sails keeping him hidden from the eyes behind him. Not that they were watching of course. They were too busy fighting off the northern fleet. After that disastrous first night, Beron had changed many things about the way the northern fleet attacked the Redwyne fleet.

His ships also went in with black sails and all lights shuttered. It allowed his ships to get much closer without begin spotted, and gave the Reachmen less time to prepare. This had allowed the northerners to get away with much lower losses. Last night they had only lost one ship, compared to the Redwyne’s seven. They had been at it for two weeks now, and Storm’s End’s larders were almost filled, and their garrison almost completely relieved.

The Redwyne fleet was on the verge of breaking. They had lost more than half of their ships, compared to the northerners only losing a quarter of theirs. Northern losses were getting lower and lower, while Redwyne defeats were getting more and more costly. On land, Mace Tyrell had finally decided to do something, most probably at Paxtor Redwyne’s urging.

He had assaulted the castle three times now, but each time he was easily rebuffed by the now well fed defenders.

It certainly didn’t help that his most able commander, Randyll Tarly had left a week ago with almost half of Mace’s host. Beron had told him that they had gone to help Rhaegar put down Rickard Stark’s forces in the Riverlands.

Apparently Lord Stark had managed to defeat a host belonging to Jon Connington, and as such, Rhaegar’s troop numbers were more depleted than he would have liked.  Therefore, the reason behind the sudden troop movement.

Davos pulled up alongside the pier and quickly threw his mooring ropes to the men who waited for him. They caught them and tied his boat to the pier, allowing the soldiers he carried to disembark. Almost immediately more men appeared down the stairs and began to quickly unload the boat.

It was a well-practiced routine by now, and tonight would be the last time he undertook such a routine. It was with a tinge of sadness that overtook him as he watched the last crate of food be unloaded. He went to untie the moring ropes when he was stopped by one of Stannis’s men. “Lord Stannis wants to speak you.”

Davos nodded and followed the man up the staircase and into the castle proper. Even though he had been carting men and food into the castle for the last two weeks, this was the first time that he had actually been into the castle itself.

The man escorted him through the hallways, up a winding staircase and into a large room that overlooked the bay. Standing next to the window, and looking out at the ensuing battle between the northmen and the reachmen was Stannis himself. He was not as gaunt as he had been when Davos had first seen him two weeks ago, but he was still far from a healthy weight. His eyes still shone with an iron will though, though this time Davos saw it was more softened that it had been.

“Davos the smuggler, Lord Stannis.” His escort announced as he pushed him into the room.

“Thank you.” Stannis said. “That will be all.”

His escort nodded, bowed in deference and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Stannis gestured for Davos to join him at the window and Davos wandered over to stand next to him.

Together they watched as the Northern fleet continued to pummel the Redwyne fleet. Davos could see three ships that were on fire, and the floating ruins of another three more. As he watched, the whale beached itself upon another ship, causing it to collapse inwards onitself. Even with the howl of the wind whistling around them, Davos could still hear the faint screams of the sailors who were floundering in the deep water.

“Do you know how frustrating it is to watch this Davos?”

Davos looked at Stannis, who continued to watch the battle impassively. “Frustrating?” Davos asked. “I thought you would find it relieving.”

“Many would. But not me. All I can see is my own failure. I could not even hold these walls by myself. Instead I needed a northern saviour, like Robert did at Stoney Sept.”

“You have held these walls though.”

Stannis scoffed. “I have. Will anyone else attribute it to me though? Of course not!” He all but spat. “Instead Robert will give the credit to Ned Stark and his admiral!”

Davos remained quiet, unsure of what to say to the lord.

“I’ve held these walls for almost a year now. I’ve eaten my horses, dogs, cats and rats. I’ve watched as my own brother,” Here Stannis’s voice caught, “became to weak to lift himself out of bed! A boy of four! How do you explain to a boy of four that the pain in his stomach won’t go away because we have no more food! I starved myself to the brink of death to feed my brother and all the while Mace Tyrell and his lords feasted within sight of my walls, taunting my men and breaking their already broken spirits even more. And now, because of this my thanks will amount to nothing.”

“What does it matter?” Davos asked.

Stannis frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

“Did you do it for the thanks you were going to receive?”

“No.”

“Did you do it for glory?”

“No.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because my brother asked.”

“So why does it matter? You did as asked, you fulfilled your duty and did it well until you could be relieved. You did it without expectation of thanks. So why does it matter?”

“I did it with the expectation of death.”

“Then why are you complaining. Not only are you still alive, but the rebels are winning the war. Surely that is reward enough, particularly if your previous expectations were death.”

Stannis grunted before turning back to the window. “Perhaps your right.”

Both continued to watch the battle for a moment. “I have on offer for you.”

“Yes?” Davos asked.

“I will make you a landed knight in my service, granting you a name and a keep. I will take your sons for squires, and promise to provide your other sons the opportunity to distinguish themselves in my service, and perhaps in their own time, earn lands and a name of their own.”

Davos swallowed. Beron had pretty much offered him the same thing. To refuse one would offend the other, and the last thing that Davos wanted was a lord he liked angry at him.

“There is a condition though.” Stannis said as he turned away from the window and went to pour himself a glass of water.

“What might that condition be.”

“One good act does not absolve you of your crimes. For your crimes as a smuggler, I will take the tops of your fingers, from the first knuckle.”

Davos stared at Stannis in disbelief. This made the decision much easier.

Davos started laughing then causing Stannis to scowl at him. “Why do you throw my gift in my face?” Stannis asked through clenched teeth.

“Why would I accept your offer when I’ve received the same offer from Beron Saltstark, minus the missing fingers?” Davos asked.

Stannis ground his teeth together, before snorting. “Bloody Starks.” He muttered. “Go then.” He said in a harsh voice. “Go then and convince yourself you’re an honourable man.”

Davos frowned at Stannis. “I’m under no delusions as to what I am Lord Stannis. I’m a smuggler from Fleabottom who has spent more time being chased by the authorities than I care to count. I know I’m no honourable man.”

“Then know you are a coward and a weak man too.” Stannis replied.

“Yea I am.” Davos replied. “It’s what’s kept me alive all these years.”

Stannis didn’t respond. He just sat there brooding as he continued to watch the battle. Davos turned to go, thinking he was dismissed when Stannis stopped him by clearing his throat. Davos turned back to him.

“You’re a good man Davos.” Stannis said and then he turned around, back to the window, clearly dismissing him this time. Davos stayed though, torn on the inside.

In many ways Davos admired Stannis. He was all a good lord should be. Just, honest, honorable and with an unwavering sense of duty.

Suddenly Davos strode over to Stannis and drew his knife. He slammed it on the table in front of him. Stannis switched his iron gaze back to Davos. Davos placed his hand on the table.

“If you’re going to take my fingers, take them now, and swing the blade yourself.”

Stannis picked the blade up and twirled it between his fingers. He looked deep into Davos’s eyes and Davos got the impression that he was searching his soul. He nodded once, as though satisfied with what he had seen, before gripping the knife properly and slamming it down.

The knife rose and fell four more times and soon the fingers on Davos’s left hand were missing the first knuckle. Stannis stood, the bloody knife still clutched in his hand. Davos looked down at the mangled remnants of his fingers and sighed. What had he agreed to this for?

The pain, which hadn’t been that bad as the knife was biting through was now searing. He stumbled away from the table and his vision began to blur.

“Maester!” He heard someone call. “Get the maester!”

After that he didn’t know what happened because he had fainted.


	38. Davos IV: Brewing with Beron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beron and Davos have a conversation. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

When Davos came to, the first thing he saw was Beron Saltstark in the middle of a yelling match with Stannis Baratheon.

Losing his brothers had changed Beron. No longer was he the jovial, japing fool that Davos had met in Fleabottom on that fateful night more than a month ago. He was harsher now, stern, unyielding and with an iron sense of purpose. In short, he had become the Stannis Baratheon of the North. Wether or not this character change would survive the test of time, only the gods knew.

His character change however was leading to a very heated argument at the end of Davos bed.

“He was my man!” Beron yelled. “You had no right to do what you did!”

“I had every right!” Stannis yelled back. “He was a smuggler! Just because he saved my garrison it doesn’t mean his past crimes were absolved!”

“No it doesn’t, but surely it more than provides a just reason to give him a pardon!”

“I was giving him a reward!”

“Reward?” Beron scoffed, “What reward entails losing the tops of your fingers?”

“A just one!” Stannis insisted.

Beron clenched his jaw. “No wonder people prefer your brother!” He muttered.

“What did you say?” Stannis asked as his hand drifted to the sword at his side.

“I said that it is no wonder that people prefer your brother! Yes a lord should be just! But he should also be compassionate! What do you think would have happened if Robert had of used your version of justice on the three lords that opposed him at Summerhall?”

“He would be less three men of questionable loyalty!” Stannis retorted.

Beron just shook his head and turned to Davos. His eye’s widened when he saw he was awake and he rushed to his side. “Davos!” He exclaimed. He reached to the table next to Davos’s head and grabbed a cup of water. He placed it near his lips and Davos drank deeply.

“Beron?” He asked. “What are you doing here?”

At this Beron scowled before glaring at Stannis. “Trying to protect you from Lords who have no idea on the concept of compassion.”

Stannis turned his nose up at this, as if the idea was too disgusting to even contemplate.

“I asked him to.” Davos said as he sat up straighter.

“I heard.” Beron replied. “What madness possessed you?”

“He called me a coward and weak in one sentence, and then in the next said I was a good man. I knew good men weren’t cowards or weak so I had to make a choice between being a coward or begin a good man. I chose to be a good man.”

Beron’s gaze softened. “You always were a good man.”

Davos smiled then. “Even when you were chasing me across the bite?”

Beron didn’t return the smile, gods he had become grim, but a familiar twinkle lit his eyes up. “Even then.”

“No you weren’t.” Stannis said. “You were a smuggler.”

Beron scowled at him. “He was a _good_ smuggler. He was also a man. Therefore he was a _good_ man.”

“All I ever wanted was to do the right thing by my boys.” Davos said as he looked out the window. Strangely the Redwyne fleet was gone. “Where’s the Redwyne fleet?” Davos asked.

“Gone.” Beron said. “Last night was their most costly. My fleet is currently pursuing down the coast.”

“Why aren’t you with them then?”

“My smuggler went missing and I went to look for him.”

Stannis scowled at Beron. “He’s not your smuggler. He agreed to serve me.”

Beron turned to Davos with a frown. “Did you?”

Davos winced. “Actually I did not.”

Stannis frowned at him. “I offered you a position under me on the condition you paid the price for your crimes. You paid the price and I honour my oaths.”

“I did lose my fingers, but not on the expectation of receiving a lordship from you. I always intended to follow Beron.”

“Why?” Stannis asked.

“Beron needs me more. Not to say that you don’t, gods you can brood like the rest of them, but I know that Beron needs my advice and support more than you do.”

Stannis shook his head. “No,” He said impatiently, “Why did you let me take your fingers without the intention of taking my reward.”

Davos stared at him. “As I said before, I can’t be a good and weak man, so I chose to be good.”

Stannis’s frown deepened. “Why him? What do I have that makes me less worthy of your service?”

“Living brothers.” Davos replied. Stannis turned away darkly and stormed out of the door, the tension leaving with him. Almost immediately Beron enveloped Davos in a bear hug.

“I’m so sorry!” Beron exclaimed.

“Sorry?” Davos asked, “Sorry for what?”

“For letting him take your fingers.”

Davos patted Beron on the back. “Don’t worry about it. I had the opportunity to walk away but I chose not to.”

“You didn’t deserve it.”

“Maybe not, but it’s done now. There is no use crying over it.”

Beron pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “I swear I will see you rewarded for this.”

Davos smiled at the younger man. “That would be nice.” He joked.

Beron reached to the table next to him and handed him a pouch. He grabbed it from Beron’s hand.

“What’s this?” He asked as he opened it.

“Your finger bones.” Beron replied, as Davos spilled the contents of the pouch into his palm. Five white knucklebones shined in the sunlight. Davos looked at them for a while before placing them back in the pouch and hanging it around his neck. “For luck.” He explained when Beron threw him a strange look.

Beron nodded and got up. “When do you want to leave?”

“Can we go now?” Davos asked.

“Cant see why not.” Beron replied.

“Good,” Davos replied. “help me out of bed.”

Beron nodded and assisted Davos from the bed before walking to the door. “I’ll meet you in the cove. I’ve just to get some things before we go.”

Davos nodded. “I’m going to go speak to Stannis.”

Beron nodded and left. Davos threw on a shirt, and pulled on his soft leather boots before leaving the room behind. He asked a passing soldier where Stannis could be found and he was directed to the same chamber where he lost his fingers.

Stannis glanced at him when he entered the room but otherwise said nothing. After a moment of standing there, Davos cleared his throat. Stannis still ignored him, so Davos cleared his throat again.

“Did losing your fingers cause you to get a sore throat?” Stannis asked.

“No.” Davos replied.

“Then why are you making that horrible noise?”

Davos paused, unsure of how to respond. Stannis sighed, clearly taking pity on him.

“What do you want?” He said in an aggrieved tone.

“To thank you?”

“Thank me?”

“Yes.”

“Consider it done. You can leave now.”

Davos walked further into the room until he was standing next to Stannis.

“I go to serve my lord now.” Davos said.

“I know.”

“I want to give you something.” Davos said as he reached for the pouch around his neck. He reached in and pulled out a single bone. He handed it to Stannis who took it wordlessly. “If you ever have need of me, you need only send that. I will serve you until I consider you to no longer need my advice.”

Stannis nodded and placed the knucklebone on the table. “If I ever have need of you, I will call.”

“Some last advice Stannis. Don’t focus on what you don’t have. Focus on what you do have and be thankful. Many a man won’t sleep with a roof over his head tonight. Many a man will go to bed with an empty stomach. Many a man doesn’t have two legs, two arms and five fingers and toes on each.”

Stannis nodded before going back to staring out the window. Davos left and made his way down to the cove where Beron was waiting for him. “I was getting worried you had changed your mind.” He said when Davos finally emerged.

“As I said you have more need of me for now.”

“For now?”

“I gave him a knucklebone. When the time comes I will come to serve him.”

Beron nodded gravely. “Just make sure he doesn’t take any other part of you.”

“He shouldn’t have a reason to unless you dishonour your oaths.”

“What _would_ you do if I didn’t give you a lordship?”

“Tell everyone how I got through the Wolf’s Maw.”

Beron smiled then, truly smiled, like Davos hadn’t seen since the night he had lost his brothers. “Don’t tempt me,” He said, “I still want to know how you did that. Though to be fair, when I’m your lord I can command you to tell me and you will have too.”

“By then I will have forgotten!” Davos retorted with a grin. Beron grinned back and Davos saw the first signs of the return of the young man that Beron had been, and not the stern, grim man he had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit it was very satisfying reading the comments for last chapter. So many people seemed to be really upset that Davos had chosen Stannis without realizing that Davos never actually stated which lord's offer he had accepted. Instead everyone just assumed that because he let Stannis take his fingers he had accepted Stannis's offer. On that note though, I want to give a massive shoutout to everyone who has dropped a kudo since I started writing this considering I have now hit 500 kudos! Thanks to everyone!  
> Special shoutouts to YessBoss21, NightlyRowenTree, Tmar215, TLS, KatMorgan, Lunanimes, Damien, Orangwolf221 and Yananghanm99 for their continued support in the comments! So sorry if I have neglected anyone just let me know in the comments and I'll give you a shoutout next chapter!


	39. Jamie VI: Kicking it with The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie is privy to a conversation. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

The doors of the throne room swung open with a boom to reveal Wisdom’s Rossart, Garigus and Belis, all men who were members of the alchemist’s guild. The alchemist’s guild was responsible for the production of wildfire, and as such Aerys treated these men as honoured guests.

Servants stepped forth to offer them the finest wines within the cellars of the Red Keep. Another servant held a platter holding exotic foods from far across the narrow sea. The three men ate and drunk like Kings, while Aerys regaled them with stories of his wildfire burnings.

Jamie stood in the back ground, a silent sentinel, watching over all. The only other man in the room who was not either a servant or a pyromancer was the new Hand of the King, Qarlton Chelstead. Jamie liked the man, even if at times he could be too eager to please for Jamie’s liking.

Without Qarlton Chelstead the last of Brandon Stark’s retinue would be dead. Lord Chelstead had beseeched Aerys to spare the boy’s life. His name was Ethan Glover and he had been Brandon Stark’s squire. Aerys had agreed to spare him, but he was constantly guarded by at least 10 men, and kept chained to the wall of his cell by both his hands and feet. Aerys feared that he would go the same way of Brandon Stark and turn into a monster that would haunt the Red Keep.

That day still haunted Jamie at night, and he doubted it would ever leave him alone. All he could ever see when he closed his eyes was steely grey eyes, staring at him with utter loathing. All he could smell was roasting flesh, and all he could hear was the cackling of the Mad King.

Focusing his attention back on the king, he listened as he explained what he had brought the Pyromancers here for.

“House Targaryen used to have an unrivalled power. We had dragons! None could stand against us! Then because of the actions of spies and assassins our great dragons were brought low. We have tried to bring them back all to no avail! I have used my genius however to find out how to bring them back!”

“How will you bring them back My King?” Rossart asked with a querying glance at the king. Aerys smiled triumphantly. “With fire and blood!” he declared dramatically.

“Do tell me your plan.” Rossart said. “I am most interested.”

“The secret my lords, I am convinced lies in wildfire.”

“Didn’t Aerion Brightflame already try that?” Chelstead asked with a frown.

“He did. But not in the right amounts.”

“Not in the right amounts? What do you mean?”

“I will burn the entire city!” Aerys declared and Jamie’s heart stopped in his chest.

“The entire city!” Chelstead exclaimed. “That is madness! How would you even do such a thing?”

Aerys expression hardened, and a dangerous glint entered his eyes. “Wildfire caches all over the city. If the rebels win, and Rhaegar loses, as he is wont to do, I will blow up the city when they enter. They will be the kings of nothing but dust and ashes. I will destroy their armies in one fell swoop, and in the process I will become a dragon!”

Qarlton gaped at the king. “No!” He yelled. “I will not stand for this madness! I have stood by long enough!” With that he reached up and ripped the badge of hand of the king off his chest and threw it on the floor. “I stood by and watched as you murdered innocent men! I will not stand by and watch as you destroy an entire city and massacre it’s innocent masses!”

Qarlton turned to go but Aerys reached out and snagged his arm. Qarlton yanked his arm away and continued to leave. “Ser Jamie!” Aerys called.

Jamie stepped forward, his heart in his throat as he awaited his commands. “Apprehend Lord Chelstead.” Aerys said, confirming his worst fears. Jamie drew his sword and advanced down the hall on the lord, who turned and stood there defiant.

“Come on Ser Jamie!” He mocked. “Show us all how much your knightly oaths mean to you! Stand by and watch as he murders _innocents_!”

Jamie grasped him by the arm and pulled him back to the King. Aerys glared at Qarlton before turning to Rossart. “Do you have any wildfire?” He asked, his eyes glinting in that way that meant he was getting aroused.

Gods no, Jamie thought as he continued to hold Qarlton’s arm. Please no.

“I do.” Rossart said as he reached into his voluminous cloak and pulled out a small jar. With some measure of satisfaction, Jamie noticed the small scars that still lingered from where the White Raven had attacked him.

“Burn him!” Aerys commanded as he looked on Qarlton coldly.

Rossart nodded and began to tie Qarlton up. Qarlton continued to stand impassive, silently switching his cold gaze between Rossart and Jamie.

“Oathbreaker.” Qarlton snarled at him as he finally let go of his arm. “Oathbreaker!” He almost yelled as Jamie stepped away.

Rossart threw the green liquid at Qarlton’s feet, before lighting it on fire. The green flames crept up his legs, consuming. Behind him, he could hear Aerys cackling in laughter. Qarlton continued to glare at him, and impressively managed to remain silent for a much longer time than Rickard Stark had. Then he could not hold it in and screamed louder than Jamie thought possible. His cries echoed around the cavernous throne room, and the smell of roasting meat filled Jamie’s nostrils once more.

He looked away from the horrible sight and shifted his gaze up to the rafters. To his great surprise the White Raven sat there, watching down on the proceedings. It was not laughing this time, instead, if it was possible it looked sort of sad.

It noticed his gaze, and tilted its head. Jamie watched it, but didn’t say a word. That bird had delivered the news of The White Eye. Hopefully The White Eye would kill Aerys before Jamie had to take action himself.

He nodded at the bird, and it seemed to be amused. It stretched its wings and did a horrible imitation of a bow, before hopping forward and soaring out of an open window.

Qarlton’s screams had finally died down and Jamie switched his gaze back to the smoking charred corpse. Qarlton’s last words were still ringing in his ears. _Oathbreaker. Oathbreaker. Oathbreaker._

What happens though when your oaths contradict one another? How do you protect your king and the innocents? How do you pick between your king and the innocents?

Please, Jamie prayed, please let the White Eye come soon.


	40. Rickard V: The Wolves of War II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard plans his vengeance. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you reckon the "greatest insult, monument and honour of all" will be!

Rickard Stark breathed in deeply, enjoying the feel of the fresh night air in his nostrils. It was one part of his body that wasn’t affected by the horrible burns that covered him, and as such his feeling within his nose was still perfectly fine.

Behind him he heard footsteps and he turned to see Rickard Karstark standing there, his big bushy beard covering much of his face. “They’re ready for you now.”

Rickard nodded in response and took another deep breath, before turning and following Rickard down the hill and into the tent filled with the Northern lords.

Many a familiar face stared back at him as Rickard took his spot at the head of the table.

“My Lords,” Rickard began, “Many a night I have lain awake wondering how to strike back at house Targaryen for their crimes against me and my family.”

The crowd rumbled in assent, Rickard’s burnt face providing a stark reminder of just what ‘crimes’ Rickard was referring to.

“And many a night I have come up with nothing for all my efforts of searching. Tell me now my lords, what punishment befits house Targaryen for what they have done?”

The Greatjon surged to his feet. “We’ll kill them all and piss on their graves! That’s insult enough for me!”

His declaration was met with some rumbles of assent, but a few lords, most notably Roose Bolton, looked slightly perturbed, as though it was not punishment enough, aview with which Rickard was inclined to agree.

“Insult enough for you perhaps,” Rickard said in an aggrieved tone, “but I lose a _son_ to those inbred bastards. I promised Aerys to make a monument to last the ages. One that would make all dread drawing the direwolf’s wrath. I am a man of honour and I intend to honour my promise!”

Rickard’s declaration was met with a roar of assent, and Rickard allowed himself a small smile. It seemed his lords were being brought around to a more grandiose idea of vengeance.

“What about melting down the iron throne and turning it into swords for northerners?!” One man suggested.

“What about tearing the Red Keep to the ground?”

“What about destroying Dragonstone!”

“My Lords!” Rickard yelled over the din, “These ideas are all well and good, but unfeasible. We cannot melt down the throne that Robert intends to sit on. We cannot tear down the keep that Robert intends to live in! We cannot destroy Dragonstone without Robert’s consent!”

“Fuck Robert!” Someone yelled in the back of the room and Rickard supressed a grin while his lords jeered and laughed.

“Burn the Mad King with wildfire!”

Rickard smiled. This was getting more like it!

“No! No! No!” Another lord cried. “I’ve got it! Let’s sacrifice them to the Weirwoods! Let’s treat them like any other common criminal! That will be insult enough! It’ll say that they are below us!”

This declaration was met with the loudest cheer of assent yet. Rickard looked to the shadows and caught the Crannogman’s eyes before nodding barely perceptibly. It was time.

The Crannogman stepped out of the shadows and into the light. “My Lords!” He yelled in a voice that belied his size. Immediately the lords quietened and turned to the small Crannogman who stepped forward to take his place at the table.

“We must thank the gods for whatever the give us, whether it be victory or defeat. At the same time we must build a monument to last the ages. A monument that both warns the world of drawing the Direwolf’s wrath and insults the Targaryens.”

“Do you have a suggestion or are you just going to keep telling us what we should do?” The Greatjon bellowed.

The Crannogman smiled at the giant lord coldly. “Of course I have a plan.” He snarled. “I wouldn’t have stepped forth if I didn’t.”

The Crannogman turned to Rickard and threw him a awry smile. “You see My Lords, the Crannogmen are the guardians of the old knowledge. We have knowledge of a certain ritual that will fulfil all the requirments of our revenge…”

The Crannagoman continued to explain and he saw his lords faces change from annoyed to awed horror. As he perused the lords he noticed one wasn’t watching the Crannogman and was instead watching him. He caught Roose Bolton’s pale lifeless eyes, and the ghost of a smile drifted across the leech lord’s face before he nodded slightly.

The words passed unspoken between them. _Well played._

Rickard nodded back, before switching his gaze back to the Crannogman.

The room was silent for a minute when he had finished. Each lord just continued to look a mixture of awed and horrified beyond measure.

The Greatjon stirred and Rickard leant forward. Now was the moment of truth. Now was when he found out if he had succeeded.

“Well” Greatjon said as he swallowed thickly. “Remind me never to piss you off.” Then he burst into a savage grin. “That is the greatest insult, monument and honour of all.”

Rickard smiled.

Well played indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have begun to write the battle of the Trident, though it is not coming for a few chapters yet, and I wanted to know if you guys would rather one big chapter or many smaller chapters?  
> If you want me to write the bigger chapter, it's possible I need to take a few days off updating to finish it properly. If not, then the normal update schedule continues, that being as much as I possibly can.  
> To be fair though, I might be able to finish it before I need to publish it so this might be for nothing, but let me know anyway!


	41. Eddard VI: The Battle of God's Eye.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned fights Randyll Tarly. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Eddard Stark thundered along the Kingsroad, Rodrick Walton riding beside him and the Weirwood Warriors following behind him in a column of riders four men wide. They had passed the God’s Eye earlier that morning, and Rodrick had informed him that Randyll Tarly’s host was three days march down the King’s Road.

One of the outriders that Rodrick had sent out was coming riding up the King’s Road. Rodrick held up his hand, and his White Hart stopped. The bond between the two was uncanny. Behind them the warriors did the same.

The outrider reined his horse to a stop in front of Rodrick and jumped from the saddle, dropping to his knees.

“Lord Stark, Lord Commander.” The man greeted without even pausing to catch his breath.

“Rise man.” Rodrick said as he waved his hand. “Tell me what you have come for.”

“I have found the spot you were looking for.”

“Good. Where is it?”

“10 miles west from here.”

Rodrick nodded and turned to Ned. “Your commands?” He asked.

Ned furrowed his brow and tried to envision the movement of troops within his mind’s eye. When he felt he had a firm idea of how Randyll Tarly would react he nodded.

“Split the host in two.” He said. “You’ll take 1000 men down to drive his host to where we want to meet him. Do not directly engage. Just keep pushing him to our battlefield. I’ll take the other two thousand and set up on the crest in preparation for him.”

Rodrick nodded and turned his hart around to relay Ned’s orders to the troops. Ned watched as a third of the host continued on, while the other turned their mounts to the woods to the west.

Rodrick, having finished relaying his instructions, returned to where Ned sat upon his horse. He was accompanied by a man with large, beefy arms and a large war hammer swung across his back. At the man’s side were two swords, one of which Ned noted with interest seemed to be newly made.

“Lord Stark!” Rodrick called as he dismounted his Hart and took one of the man’s swords. Ned followed his movements with his eyes. Rodrick turned around and strode to Ned. “If you are to lead the Weirwood Warriors in battle, you are in need of a blade worthy of the Weirwood Warriors. Here.” He said as he held out his outstretched hands.

The scabbard while beautiful, was also quite plain. It was comprised of Weirwood and white leather. Capping the top and bottom of the scabbard was a bronze filigree. The handle was of the blade was also wrapped in white leather, but apart from that it had no other distinguishing features.

Ned shook his head. “While I appreciate the offer Lord Commander, I already have a trusted blade that has seen me through. It might not be as pretty, but it is just as deadly.”

The large man glowered at him. “Are you saying your _common_ sword is as good as the one I forged for you?”

Ned shook his head. “I’m just saying I already have a blade. I don’t need another.”

Rodrick rolled his eyes and shoved the sword into his lap. “Draw it.”

Ned pulled the sword from the scabbard and his eyes almost popped out of his head. The blade was made of Starsteel, the same metal that Rodrick’s _Harbinger_ , and Arthur Dayne’s _Dawn_ , was made of.

“Were di you get the materiels?” Ned asked as he inspected the blade in awe.

The big man rolled his eyes. “Well it’s not called Mount Starpoint for nothing.”

“You mean there’s starsteel at Mount Starpoint!! How come no one else knows?” Ned exclaimed.

“It’s our greatest kept secret. It’s partly the reason why we were formed, to protect the starsteel from thieves and Targaryens.”

Ned inspected the blade once more, before sighing and putting it back in it’s scabbard. He held it out for Rodrick to take. “Give the blade to someone who knows how to use it. Surely you have better swordsmen than me in your ranks. It would be a deadlier weapon in their hands.”

Rodrick nodded. “It most probably would. The only problem is that they can only wield one sword at a time.”

Ned’s mouth dropped open. “You mean…”

Rodrick nodded. “Every man in the Weirwood Warriors is armed with a Starsteel blade. Do you understand now why you must accept this sword? You cannot have a commander with worse arms than his men.”

Ned nodded and took the sword back, before strapping it to his side. It’s weight was a reassuring comfort at his side. “Does it have a name?” He asked.

Rodrick turned to the large man who said he was the smith. “Of course it does. All the best swords have names.”

“What is its name?” Ned asked as he admired the fine weapon.

“Snowfall.” The large man said, before turning and spurring his horse the other way.

“Keep good care of the blade, Lord Stark. It is one of the finest blades he has ever made.”

Ned nodded, still numb at the thought of owning a sword made of the same material as _Dawn_.

“I’ll see you in a few days.” Rodrick said as he tapped his Hart. It spurred forward, pursuing the rapidly disappearing line of men down the King’s Road, towards battle with the Reachmen’s host.

* * *

 

Far in front of them, pressed deep against the waters of the God’s Eye were the remnants of Randyll Tarly’s host. Rodrick had gone far and above in his actions, and had managed to wipe out almost a quarter of Tarly’s men, some five thousand men.

The remaning fifteen thousand were arrayed against him now. Pikes down, shield’s held in front prepared for the cavalry charge that they no doubt thought Ned and his men would field. Ned turned to the large man who had forged his sword, whose name Ned had learned was Cregan.

“Bows.” Ned said, and Cregan yelled Ned’s orders down the line. As one, his host of 2000 men pulled their Weirwood bows from their saddles and fitted them with arrows. As one, they raised their bows, and as one they released their stirngs, causing the air to fill with a rain of steel.

As one, his men nocked another arrow and let it loose. They filled the air with another three flights of arrows before the first had even hit the ground. The attack devastated the front lines of Tarly’s men. Some 8000 arrows smashed into them, all in rapid succession.

The front lines were utterly broken, the pikes on the floor, the shields raised over their heads to protect from the rain of arrows that fell upon them.

Ned nodded again to Cregan who roared for another flight of arrows. Another four flights of arrows filled the air, and it fell upon Tarly’s troops again. The arrows had decimated the front of Tarly’s men. Many a man wasn’t moving, and Ned saw with a small level of satisfaction that the injured and dead were a sizeable chunk of Tarly’s host.

Tarly himself Ned could see rapidly ordering his men to get into a formation that would allow them to combat the deadly rain of arrows that fell upon them.

Ned held up a hand and the rain of arrows ceased.  Tarly took full advantage of the reprieve and sorted his men into a formation to combat the rain of arrows that fell upon them. While the middle and back of the host managed to get into a largely defendable position, the front was utterly decimated and struggled to even form a shiledwall.

It was time.

Ned drew his sword and whirled it over his head, the Starsteel catching the glare of the late afternoon sun. “Wintefell!” He roared as he spurred his horse forward.

“Winterfell!” His two thousand roared as they spurred their mounts forward as well. The host thundred down the hill and towards Tarly’s line. The men were panicking, and more than one had thrown down his amrs and fled into the lake.

Ned watched as the wolves of the Weirwood Warriors bounded ahead of the mass of charging horseman and crashed into what remained of the front lines. Then Ned was amongst them himself, his new sword flashing down to take a spearman’s head from his shoulders.

Ned sensed danger behind him and instinctively twisted his body. A spearhead filled the space where his torso had been seconds before, and he quickly slashed at the spearhead. His sword cut through the wooden shaft like paper, and Ned turned his horse to face a man who was left holding a useless wooden shaft.

To his credit, the man just threw the shaft aside and rushed at him fists bared, but his fists were no match for the terribly glory of Ned’s new blade.

Ned spurred his horse after another spearman, and the horse slipped on the muddied, bloodied field, before regaining its footing and charging after the man. He didn’t reach it in time however, and instead it was taken down by a grey wolf, who just about tore the man’s head off.

Around him the Weirwood Warriors had utterly wiped out the front line to the last man. The middle host had managed to reorganise itself for a charge against them. He heard a horn blow, and the second host lowered their spears and started marching forward.

“REFORM!” Ned roared as he spurred his horse a safe distance away. “REFORM!”

The call was echoed amongst his men and they fled to the crest where Ned sat. They quickly reformed their lines and got ready for another charge.

“Bows!” Ned roared, and as one his men repeated the deadly performance of a few minutes earlier that had so devastated their enemy’s front line.

More men fell, though the effect wasn’t as bad as it had been earlier. Ned noticed a flash of bronze in the woods to the north of Tarly’s host.

 Ned strained his eyes and suddenly a White Hart burst forth from the treeline, carrying the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. The whole treeline quivered and then exploded as another line of horsemen, one thousand strong came bearing down on the side of Tarly’s host.

As they rode, they shot their bows with deadly accuracy, dropping men along the side of the host. The host shuffled and split, clearly unsure of how to respond to this new threat.

Ned heard Rodrick bellow a wordless war cry that his men echoed. He drew his sword and spun it over his head as he approached the enemy line. His Hart crashed into the line with a force that threw men high into the air. The Hart’s wide horns swept back and forth, throwing men left and right and creating a chaos and destruction Ned didn’t know such beasts were capable of.

“Charge!” Ned roared and his reformed line thundered down the hill and back into the fray.

It was nothing short of slaughter. The Weirwood Warriors were a class above any warrior that Ned had seen and the men that Tarly had brought were the Knights of Summer, used to Tourneys and sparring one on one.

The Weirwood Warriors were born and trained killers. The peasants, sworn swords and hedge knights that Tarly had brought with him stood no chance.

Ned had yet to see the body of Weirwood Warrior upon the ground, but Tarly’s men were already broken.

With the middle host well on the way to being destroyed, the final line broke and ran. Many a man tried to flee into the waters of God’s Eye, thinking it would protect them from the savage blows of the Starsteel blades, only for their heavy steel armour to drag them underneath the clam waters.

More fled to the saftety of the forests, only to be ridden down by pursuing Weirwood Warriors. A small minority, some 100 men, banded together and formed a ring.

Randyll Tarly was at the centre of his ring, his Valyrian steel greatsword in his hand, his booming voice echoing around as he prepared to make a last stand.

The Weirwood Warriors reformed around the ring of 100 men, blades drawn and teeth bared.

Ned trotted his horse forward, out of the mass of men and to where Lord Tarly could see him clearly. He reached up and pulled his helm off his head.

“Lord Tarly.” He greeted the older man.

“Lord Stark.” The man said shortly as he clenched his hands around his sword.

“Will you surrender?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

“Single combat then.” Ned said. “To first blood.”

Lord Tarly narrowed his eyes. “And if I win?”

“You will be allowed to return south with the remains of your host.”

“If I lose?”

“You surrender and all you and your become my prisoners.”

Tarly stewed it over for a minute before nodding. He pushed his way through the ring and out of the shield wall. “To first blood” He said.

“To first blood.” Eddard Stark agreed before dismounting his horse and striding forward to meet the man in battle.

Randyll lifted his sword into a defensive position, and crouched backwards, steadying his body.

Ned breathed deeply once, twice and then placed his helm back on. He drew his sword and heard Randyll Tarly grunt. “That is a fine blade.”

“It is.” Ned replied. Quick as a viper Randyll struck out with his greatsword. Ned caught the blade on his and the impact jarred his arms. Randyll followed up with a rapid series of swings that left Ned on the back foot, constantly moving back to avoid losing his head or some other important part of him.

Ned saw an opening and took it, swinging his blade beneath Randyll’s guard and into his breastplate. His blade sheared through the steel. Unfortunately it didn’t go deep enough to draw blood, but it cut a strap, causing the front of Randyll Tarly’s breastplate to fall away, exposing the light leather padding underneath.

The Lord of Horn Hill backed away and Ned pivoted forwards, swinging his sword at the man’s side.

Randyll managed to block and they exchanged a furious flurry of slashes before Ned stepped back to catch his breath. Randyll resettled into a defensive crouch, also taking the chance to catch his breath.

Ned knew he had to finish it, and finish it soon. Taking a chance he ran straight at the lord and knocked his swinging blade aside with his own, before punching him in his unprotected stomach with his spare hand.

The Lord of Horn Hill, bowed over reflexively, briefly winded. Ned took full advantage and knocked his sword from his hand, into the bloodied ground.

He placed his sword on Randyll’s neck.

“Yield.” He demanded.

Randyll Tarly swallowed before slowly reaching up and throwing his helmet off. “Yield.” He conceded.

Ned sighed and put his sword back in its sheath. He stepped backwards and remounted his horse. “We’ll set up camp here for the night.” He said as he looked out over the waters of God’s Eye, towards the direction of the isle of faces.

As his men followed his instructions he went down to the water’s edge. Blood was leeching into the water from their field of battle and it had turned the water a dark red.

He heard movement behind him and Rodrick Walton came to stand beside him.

“The battlefield was well chosen. The Weirwoods on the isle shall feast tonight.”

Ned looked at the bloodied water, and the floating bodies, and could not help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the Battle of the Trident!  
> The general consensus in the comments was to do one big chapter, so that's what I'm doing. To be honest though, I havent finsihed it yet, and I doubt I will be able to by tomorrow so you might have to wait a few days.  
> Leave a comment and tell me what you want to see in the Battle of the Trident!


	42. The Battle of The Trident.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of The Trident.  
> Please, please, please leave a comment and tell me what you think. I really badly want to know what you liked and didn't like!

Rickard I

His horse moved beneath him, the animal’s powerful muscles thrumming as he rode away from their camp on the Trident. Next to him loped two War Wolves, with a grace that belied their savagery in battle. If his horse was unnerved by the presence of the two apex predators who ran beside it, it hid it well. In truth though, many northern horses were accustomed to the presence of the War Wolves, particularly those bred for war, such as the mount that Rickard sat upon.

He stopped a fair way from the camp, upon the rise behind their camp, and watched as his soldiers marched out behind him, in twin columns, like two twin rivers running parallel to each other. The steady beat of his soldier’s feet and the jangling of their armour and weaponry provided a comforting sound to Rickard’s burnt ears.

Soon his son would be avenged. Soon his debts to house Targaryen would be repaid. He would strike blood for blood, and then some more.

As he listened to the clatter of his men’s armour, he rechecked his own. His dark grey plate armour provided protection from all but the deadliest weapons in the most skilled hands. He rechecked the straps of his pauldrons, refitted his gauntlets and tightened the strap of his breast plate. The one thing his armour lacked was a helmet. He had been offered one, but all but scorned it. He wanted his enemies to know who had killed them. He wanted them to look upon his face and feel fear. He wanted to his burns to become synonymous with fear and death. Strapped to his back was House Stark’s Valyrian steel Greatsword, Ice. It was a hulking, solid chunk of metal that was the largest Valyrian steel weapon in the known world. It was Rickard’s pride and joy to wield, and he was glad that he had chosen to leave it at Winterfell when he had pursued Brandon. If he hadn’t, it would have been in the hands of the Mad King and his cronies.

Just thinking about them made Rickard’s heartbeat rise. He clenched his jaw. For him this fight could not start fast enough. He had been ready for weeks now, all they were waiting on was for Rhaegar to get off his arse and come and fight them. When Rhaegar still had not come and showed no intention of coming, Rickard had provided some motivation…and by the old gods had it worked well.

Rickard turned his eye to the opposite bank of the Trident. He was yet to see the plume of dust that indicated the nearing Targaryen forces. His outriders had sworn they were there though. They had said they were a four hour march away, so Rickard was ensuring the implementation of the final steps of the strategy that Jon Arryn, Brynden Tully and himself had hammered out a week ago.

The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, painting the land in a myriad of pinks, reds and yellows. It was a beauty that would soon by marred by blood.

Rickard turned his head. “Are the other troops still in position?”

Greatjon Umber stirred from his own saddle. “Yes Lord Stark. The Targaryen host continues to barrel forward though, at a speed we did not predict.”

Rickard shrugged. It didn’t really matter. The end result would still be the same. He had too many troops for it to go the other way. The gods themselves would have to be against Rickard for him to lose this battle. It had been planned down to the minutest detail with some of the finest military minds in Westeros.

Rhaegar was rushing in as they wanted and had put himself in the exact position they wanted him in.

Across the river a horseman suddenly burst from the trees, his horse panting heavily, suggesting he had just run his horse either quite far or quite hard. He quickly forded the stream, made his way through the camp and ascended to the ridge that Rickard was sitting on. Already half of his men were hidden behind the ridge, unseen to all except those from his position.

The horseman skidded to a stop in front of him before jumping from his horse and falling to one knee.

“They are in position My Lord.”

Rickard nodded before turning to the wolves flanking him. “Send the signal.”

As one, the wolves sat down on their haunches and lifted their great shaggy heads into the air. As one they howled, and it echoed across the rolling hills of the Riverlands before fading into oblivion. Seconds later the Riverlands was ringing with the howls of wolves, as his men indicated they had understood. Rickard nodded satisfied. Hopefully this wouldn’t scare Rhaegar too much. He still wanted a fight out of him.

Only once the last echoes of the wolves’ howls died out did the whispering begin. Even though Rickard knew what it was, and who was doing it, it still chilled him to the bone.

 

Rhaegar I:

It began as a whisper upon the wind, so faint that Rhaegar wasn’t sure if he had actually heard it. Moments ago the woods had come alive with the howls of wolves, so at first he thought it was just the last echoes of their cries.

Then he heard it again.

_Rhaegar._

He strained his ears, still unsure if he had actually heard it.

_Rhaegar._

He had definitely heard it then. He turned to Ser Barristan Selmy who rode beside him. The man was frowning, clearly deep in thought. “Did you hear that?” Rhaegar asked.

Ser Barristan glanced up. “Hear what?”

_Rhaegar._

“There!” Rhaegar exclaimed. “Someone said my name!”

_Rhaegar._

This time he heard it clearly. It was becoming louder, more defined and this time he knew Ser Barristan heard it as well. His face had gone white, and his eyes were searching the woods.

_Rhaegar._

It was so clear now, that Rhaegar didn’t even need to strain his ears. Indeed, a glance behind him told him that rest of his forces had heard it as well. Hundreds of eyes were searching the woods that lined the sides of the Kingsroad, searching for whoever, or whatever, was doing this.

_Rhaegar._

Behind him he saw Anders Yronwood spur his horse forward. The dornish lord, the man in charge of the Dornish host, pulled his horse up alongside Rhaegars. Rhaegar looked at him. “Do you know what this is?” He asked and Lord Yronwood nodded grimly.

“It’s a northern battle tactic they picked up from the Company of the Rose.”

“What’s it called?”

_Rhaegar._

“The whispers of winter.” Yronwood replied with a grimace. “I know a man who was there when the company first used it in the war between Braavos and Pentos. A pentoshi force had managed to push into the Andalos foothills. The entire company had hidden themselves within the hills and continued to whisper the same word over and over. Within a day, the Pentoshi were fleeing in fear of their lives. Ever since, the Pentoshi have considered the hills to be haunted by demons.”

_Rhaegar._

Rhaegar scoffed. “The Pentoshi were cowards.” He snarled, “These men will find that we are made of harder stuff.”

Anders Yronwood shrugged. “You might be, but your common soldiers aren’t.”

_Rhaegar._

Rhaegar turned his head and looked back down the column. Many a man was pale, and some held their spears within trembling hands. Many an eye was cast to the wood, watching it warily, flicking to every shadow.

“This will not do.” Rhaegar snarled.

_Rhaegar._

“No.” Barristan ceded. “It’s never good to have your nerves strung this high before a battle.”

Anders Yronwood nodded before turning and racing down the line, yelling encouragements to the pale faced men.

_Rhaegar._

Rhaegar shivered. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was bloody effective. Already the whispers were grating on his nerves, causing him to grind his teeth. He turned to Ser Barristan, the old knight watching the tree line warily, a lot like the rest of the host.

“Do you think we should pick up the pace?” Rhaegar asked. Barristan tore his eyes away from the woods and met Rhaegar’s gaze.

“No. It would only exhaust the men further. Better to take our time.”

Rhaegar nodded, content at his last remaining Kingsguards advice.

_Rhaegar._

This was the loudest it had been yet and it caused Rhaegar to wince. This was getting very disconcerting, very quickly. A glance at Ser Barristan told him that even the normally unflappable knight was having a hard time.

“We double time the march.” He suddenly announced. Anything to get away from this infernal whispering. Barristan threw a wary glance at Rhaegar. “Are you sure My Prince?”

Rhaegar nodded. “I am eager to meet Lord Rickard in battle. I have no time for his games. Let’s get to the Trident, crush him and his lords and then return home.”

Barristan smiled wryly. “If only it were that simple.”

Rhaegar grinned back at him.

_Rhaegar._

The discordant whisper caused his smile to be replaced by a scowl. He turned and nodded to Richard Lonmouth who hefted a war horn to his lips.

He blew the note once, twice, three times. Immediately the call was repeated down the line, and the host sped up.

They had marched onwards for a few more minutes when they came across the first stake, hammered deep into the gorund. Sitting attached to the top of the stake was a leather pouch. Rhaegar held up a hand and the host stopped behind him. Together, he and Ser Barristan made their way to the stake.

Ser Barristan reached down and plucked the bag off the top of the stake. He opened it and peered inside. Immediately, his eyes widened and he blanched. He handed the bag to Rhaegar wordlessly.

Rhaegar took it and spilled the contents of the pouch into his hand. It was a single finger, chopped off at the joint. Rhaegar looked at it before glaring at the woods around him.

The message was clear. Rickard was sick of waiting. Rhaegar scowled as he thought of Jon Connington. Somewhere in these woods, his dear friend was being held, most probably in pain and definitely missing a few fingers.

_Rhaegar._

The whisperings still hadn’t stopped. Rhaegar glared at the open road ahead before placing the finger back in the bag, and rehanging it from the post.

Rickard Stark was a barbarian who deserved worse than death. Screw his promises to Lyanna to keep him alive. He would die at Rhaegar’s sword and he would die _painfully_. Rhaegar would enjoy every scream he managed to coax from The Burnt Lord’s lips. He spurred his horse forward, and behind him, his host of 55000 men marched forward, the sound of their tramping feet filling the forest.

Above it all though, the whisperings continued.

_Rhaegar._

_Rhaegar._

_Rhaegar._

 

Eddard I:

The sound of distant war horns echoed from somewhere in front of him. Next to him, Rodrick Walton stirred from where he was leaning against a mossy log. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again they were milky white, indicating he was warging. Seconds later, his eyes returned to their normal steely grey. He turned to Ned. “They’re ahead of us by about one league.”

Ned nodded before strapping his new sword to his side. He still couldn’t believe he was the wielder of a Starsteel blade. Even if the metal wasn’t as rare as he had once thought. He mounted his horse and around him the Weirwood Warriors did the same. He adjusted his grip on his lance, and settled deep into his saddle.

He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, enjoying the calming rhythm of his own breath.

“Do not be afraid.” Rodrick said as his White Hart, plodded forward to stand next to Ned’s horse. “The old gods are with us.”

Ned switched his gaze to the Weirwood tree that they had chosen to stop by, and where a few remaining Weirwood Warriors were deep in prayer.

“Their eyes stretch south once more, like in the days of the first men, when the Weirwoods ruled from The Stepstones to the Wall.”

Ned just nodded. Glancing one last time at the tree, and uttering one final prayer, Ned gave the signal for the Weirwood Warriors to move out.

Their mounts picked their way carefully through the treacherous terrain. These horses were some of the most finely bred and trained in the world, and had bonds with their riders that went beyond just the physical. It still scared Ned how good these men were at killing. The decimation of Tarly’s host had been a brutal and bloody conflict, and Ned could still see the bloody stain that stretched across the waters of the Eye.

The warged animals of the Weirwood Warriors crept through the woods alongside them, and not for the first time, Ned marvelled at the relationship between man and beast. The most prominent animal were wolves, and indeed they seemed to be everywhere. Their use in battle was unchallenged, and Ned had yet to encounter any form of combat that would hold against a pack of swarming wolves. Especially when it was in the thousands strong.

Cavalry was useless as their horses panicked, and infantrymen were not much better. The most effective way to fight them Ned figured was to squash yourself in a corner, and prepare to fight the one by one.

Unfortunately for Rhaegar and his host, there would be no such opportunity to do so in the rolling hills of the Riverlands.

Soon enough the rear of Rhaegar’s host came into view through the trees. Ned and his men stayed in the shadows though, and had already painted their armour with mud so as not attract the sun’s glare.

Rodrick once more pulled his White Hart alongside Ned. “A formidable sight.” Rodrick said and Ned could not help but agree. There was more than five times the numbers that Ned had faced at Stoney Sept. They could only hope now that their plan would work. If even one part of it was delayed or early by even five minutes, it could spell for disaster and give Rhaegar the opportunity to slip away with his host, an outcome that Ned dearly wanted to avoid with the amount of effort they had put into just getting Rhaegar here.

Ned and the Weirwood Warriors continued to shadow the Targaryen host for the better part of the morning. Rhaegar was pushing his men hard, and it had begun to show. Some men were dropping off, staggering along at the back of the column and more than one man had fallen to the wayside, to be left behind.

It certainly didn’t help that the men were on half-rations due to Rheagars lack of a proper baggage train. Including the fact that many in the host were too scared to leave the camp to hunt had not only meant that the provisions were running low, but morale was also running low.

Morale was all that kept an army going in Ned’s opinion. It didn’t matter if you had all the best food, and all the best weapons and armour, if you had no morale your defeat was all but guaranteed.

Soon the Weirwood Warriors had reached the point where they had been ordered to stop until signalled. Ned pulled his charged in, and watched as Rhaegar’s host continued on down the Kingsroad.

And above it all the whisperings continued.

_Rhaegar._

_Rhaegar._

_Rhaegar._

“Rhaegar.” Ned whispered as he pulled his helm from his head, joining in the chorus of whispering voices, all chanting the same name. “Rhaegar.” Ned whispered as he glared at the disappearing host.

Soon his brother could rest in peace. Soon his father could sleep in peace. Soon he could have his vengeance.

 

Rhaegar II:

As soon as they reached the Trident the whispering stopped. It didn’t fade away, didn’t gradually die out, it just stopped. It was as uncanny as it was disconcerting.

Rhaegar sat on his black charger as his men trooped into position, assembling on the southern side of the Trident. Several lines of mounted knights formed the vanguard, while behind them sat columns of infantrymen, prepared to support their fellow loyalists.

Satisfied they would soon be in position, Rhaegar turned to observe the elderly knight in white plate who sat on his courser further down the stream, directing his own troops.

He turned his eye to the forces that were assembling on the other side of the Trident. How they had managed to defeat Jon Connington, Rhaegar would never know. They had streamed out of their camp in drabbles, many still holding a wineskin. They formed loose lines, and didn’t really have a sense of organisation about them.

Rhaegar predicted there was perhaps 20,000 men assembled against him. The hosts had mingled and northerners stood beside riverlords even as valemen stood next to stormlords.

It seemed that Jon had bloodied them at Stoney Sept more than even Varys could have predicted.

He was glad. At least Jon Connington had gone down in a blaze of glory. His defeat hadn’t been for nothing, instead paving the way for Rhaegar to win today.

Scanning the centre of the enemy line he looked for the sigil of the running wolf and found it almost immediately. He could not see the Lord that had caused them so much grief, but he assumed he must have been near there.

As he tracked the progress of the last of the rebel’s stragglers emerging from their camp, he could not help but feel slightly disappointed. He had expected more from The Burnt Lord, and instead all he had gotten was a bunch of undisciplined, drunken soldiers forming half a line and preparing to rush at them, even with less than half of the troops.

At the centre of the enemy line, he noticed a commotion. A small group of men had stepped forth holding instruments. They struck up a haunting mournful tune. As one, the entire enemy host began to sing.

 

_Where now her horse and its rider,_

_Where now our lords and their heirs,_

_Where is our dear sweet Lyanna?_

_Wind whistling through her hair?_

_Where now the blood of the Mad King?_

_Where now the blood of Rhaegar?_

_Where now the head of the Mad King?_

_Where now the head of the Raper?_  
  


_Rhaegar, Rhaegar, come out and die._

_O that is what, our heir did cry,_

_Now he is dead,_

_And in his stead,_

_We now do call,_

_Rhaegar Rhaegar, come out and die!_

_Rhaegar, Rhaegar, come out and die!_

_Rhaegar. Rhaegar, come out and die!_

Rhaegar’s jaw clenched. How dare they accuse him of such activities? Did they not know what his father had done to his mother? Did they not know of his aversion to such activities?

Rhaegar shook his head. There would be no mercy found for these northerners today. He would break the Stark’s for what they had done! He would tear Winterfell to the ground! He would kill them all!

He turned to look down his line and he saw that his troops were finally in position. He stood up in his horse’s stirrups and waved his sword around his head, mustering the courage of his troops.

His troops roared in response, and before Rhaegar knew it his men had burst into a chant.

“Rhaegar! Rhaegar! Rhaegar!” They chanted as they stamped their feet and clashed their wepaons against their shields.

Across the river, the rebels broke into a chant of their own, and while there was nowhere near as many of them as Rhaegar had, their chant filled the air, drowning out the chants of his own men.

“Rapist! Rapist! Rapist!” They jeered, before calling out a different name. “Stark! Stark! Stark!”

The sound roared around them, almost as if a host five times their number was roaring right alongside them.

Rhaegar turned to his horn blower. “Sound the charge!” He instructed. His horn blower raised the horn to his lips and blew one long, hard, continuous note. As one his host began to move forward to engage the rebels that had amassed on the other side of the river.

Rhaegar spurred his horse forward along with the rest of them, charging to meet the enemy host in battle.

“For Jon.” He whispered as he slammed his helm down. “For Lyanna.”

A glance to his left found Barristan Selmy’s host marching in step with his. A glance to his right showed the same among the Dornish led host.

He maintained an easy canter, not allowing his horsemen to outstrip his infantry. The soldiers on the far bank didn’t seem very concerned however. A few pulled out bows and began to fire off arrows at his horsemen. For every arrow that hit a man, ten missed. It was a waste of effort in Rhaegar’s opinion.

Rhaegar looked at the line and felt something stir in his stomach.

Something didn’t feel right here. These men should have been on the verge of running, they were outnumbered by more than two to one, and yet they continued to just stand there as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

He looked closer and saw one was holding an entire leg of lamb, and was eating it as he watched their line advance.

Something’s wrong.

Rhaegar’s line hit the waters of the Trident and they began to make their way through the shallow ford. Rhaegar turned around in his saddle, trying to see if maybe Rickard Stark had managed to slip a host past him. He saw nothing apart from his own men.

He turned back around and observed that the rebels had managed to finally get into some level of organisation. The lamb man had gotten rid of his leg of lamb and replaced it with a battle-axe.

The enemy line pulled together with spearmen on the front, preparing for the time when the horseman would arrive. Rhaegar’s forces were in the middle of the river, when the line finally lost its courage.

It began with a single man, who threw down his shield and turned and ran the other way, soon another man was following his example, and then the entire line just seemed to melt away. Rhaegar could hear the rebel’s commanders yelling themselves hoarse to hold the line, but their men would not listen, and soon the commanders gave up the fight and fled with their men.

Rhaegar’s cavalry, seeing the line of seemingly fleeing men, broke their own line to pursue. Rhaegar held his horse back, as horsemen thundered past him, intent on striking down some of the fleeing rebels.

He yelled himself hoarse trying to stop his men from charging on, but they didn’t listen and continued on regardless. Looking to his left he saw Ser Barristan had had better luck with his host, but the Dornish was even worse than his.

The rebels disappeared over a crest and his horseman disappeared over the crest with them. From behind the hill came yelling, screaming and the clash of steel on steel.

Rhaegar’s horse left the shallow waters of the Trident, and shook itself off on the banks of the river. Looking to the top of the hill Rhaegar noticed something had changed. Over the hill, the screams and yells of fighting and dying men had died down, and were replaced by the tramp of thousands of feet, all marching in step and unison.

Rhaegar looked at the crest of the hill in concern. He had sent no infantry over the hill. A single horseman emerged from behind the crest, a lance in his hands, and a banner attached to the lance.

A breeze sprung up, and the banner fluttered open, to reveal a running grey dire wolf on an ice-white field.

 

Rickard II:

The Burnt Lord sat upon the crest of the hill the banner on his lance fluttering in the wind. Behind him lay the broken remnants of the cavalry that had pursued his men. The tramp of his soldier’s feet filled the air around him as they crested the hill next to him. He had the vast majority of his soldiers behind him, some 80,000 men.

Down in the river below him he saw Rhaegar, dressed in ridiculous ornamental plate armour that was covered in rubies. It only served to make him stick out even more, something Rickard appreciated. At least he would know where to lead his men.

The other commanders of his host rode up beside him. Robert Baratheon looked half a demon in his antlered helm, and Jon Arryn had all the honour of his Andal forefathers in the shiny plate armour that covered him from head to toe. The most impressive looking though was Bronze Yohn Royce, whose bronze runic armour had begun to glow.

It had first begun to glow a few days ago and no one had any clue as to why.

Robert raised a shaking finger and pointed it at Rhaegar, who was wheeling his horse about and trying to organise his infantry and remaining cavalry into battle formations. “There he is.”

Rickard nodded in confirmation before turning to the wolf that sat at his side. “Howl for me old friend.”

The wolf nodded and got to his haunches, before letting loose a howl that cut through the din of wheeling cavalry, and marching men.

Immediately the wolves downstream and upstream answered the call, and once more the air was ringing with the howls of wolves.

 

Rhaegar III:

“It was a ruse!” He heard Ser Barristan call. “They wanted to draw our cavalry in! We need to reform, get into defensive formations!”

“Reform!” Rhaegar cried. “Defensive positions.”

He wheeled his horse about, running up and down the lines, cajoling his men into forming defensible lines.

He looked back up at the hill, and his heart almost stopped. _Gods, where did they get all those men!_

Ser Barristan came thundering up on his warhorse and reigned in next to him, breathing hard.

“We need to retreat.” He said. “You need to flee.”

Rhaegar turned around to observe their escape route and he almost fell off his horse. “It seems our decision had been made for us.”

Barristan also turned and Rhaegar watched the colour drain from his face. “Gods…” He murmured.

“Gods indeed.” Rhaegar said.

Two more hosts flying the banners of the running direwolf were marching from the south and north of the ford. If they met up, there would be no escape for anyone. One of the hosts seemed to be further back than the other, and Rhaegar knew it would provide a small opportunity for some to get away. He considered it briefly, he could make it with Ser Barristan and some other men.

The yells of his army though brought him back down to earth, to the reality he so abhorred. “I will not abandon my men.” He said with a twinge of melancholy.

“Rhaegar!” Barristan exclaimed, “There is no shame in running, especially from numbers such as these!”

Rhaegar shook his head stubbornly. “I will not abandon my men.” He insisted.

Ser Barristan looked at him incredulously. “You will die!”

“Perhaps. If I am to die then I will take my father’s enemies with me.”

Rhaegar drew his sword and pointed it at the knot of men, in the centre of the crest. The antlered helm could only belong to Robert Baratheon, and the one wielding the lance with the banner was clearly Rickard Stark. “Forget the rest of their army. Gather the best swords and riders we have. If we are to die we will take them with us.”

Barristan nodded, understanding what he intended to do and spurred his horse away to gather the men.

Where was Randyll Tarly’s host? They needed him now and if he didn’t show soon their entire army could be doomed to defeat.

“Gods Arthur,” Rhaegar murmured, “could I use you now.”

As his thoughts turned to his dear friend, he thought of the girl this war was fought over. He could still remember the fierce countenance that attracted him so. She was the fire to his ice, the ice to his fire.

Up there was the man who had made her life miserable, the one who had consigned her to marriage with a drunken, whoring brute. Up there was the one who had defeated Jon Connington in battle, the one who had mutilated his friend. Up there was the man he had sworn to kill, and kill him he would.

 

Robert I

Down there was the man who had stolen his betrothed, had made her life miserable and brought her honour into doubt. Down there was the man whose family was responsible for the death of his mother and father, the family who after taking his parents had tried to take his brother. Down there was the man he had sworn to kill, and kill him he would.

He would wipe the Targaryen’s from the face of the earth for all they had done to him and Ned. He would kill Aery’s with his own hammer and strike Rhaegar’s children’s heads from their necks with his own hands. He would kill all the dragonspawn he could get his hands on.

He pulled his hammer from his back and took a few practice swings. It felt good in his hands, a familiar weight that only one had managed to stand against so far.

“Gods Ned,” Robert murmured, “would I love you beside me right now.”

As his thoughts wandered to his dear friend, he thought of the mission he had been sent on. He wondered if Randyll Tarly’s host was still on their way up the Kingsroad or if Ned had managed to stop them. He wondered if Ned’s body was lying broken somewhere, for only the crows to feast on.

“Remember.” Rickard Stark said. “We want Rhaegar Targaryen alive.”

He looked at Robert here, and Robert couldn’t help but shiver. Even though the man was Ned’s father, he still gave him the creeps. It might have had something to do with the horrible burns that covered his body, but for as long as Robert could remember he had left him feeling this way.

“Watcha lookin at me for?” Robert asked with a scowl.

“Cause you’re the one most likely to ignore me.”

Robert grunted in reply. If it came down to him and Rhaegar, Robert doubted he would have the self-control to hold back his swings. Not that he would ever admit it to Rickard Stark. If he did he was certain that the Burnt Lord would make him command the reserves, a prospect that Robert did not relish.

“Here they come.” Jon Arryn warned as he drew his sword.

Robert returned his gaze to Rhaegar and saw that a knot of horsemen had gathered themselves around Connington’s silver prince. Some notable standards fluttered amongst them including Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Richard Lonmouth as well as the three Darry brothers, all of whom were notable swordsmen. There was also some Dornish banners that Robert didn’t recognise and a few from the crownlands.

A horn blew somewhere and the entire Targaryen host began to march forward.

_Finally!_ Robert exalted within his mind. He turned to Rickard who was busy watching the hosts across the river that would cut off the Targaryen’s escape route. Finally he switched his gaze back to the advancing Targaryen host.

He lowered his lance and kicked his horse forward, and behind him the entire rebel army did so too. Robert ran with them, his horse thundering along towards the Targaryen line, along with a few wolves and to his surprise and amusement an armoured brown bear.

“Rhaegar!” He roared as he whirled his hammer, “Fight me!”

 

Rhaegar IV

Rhaegar and his group of horseman pushed themselves up the hill and towards Rickard Stark’s advancing army. Rickard Stark himself was leading the army, with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn riding right beside him. The fool had chosen not to wear his helm, leaving his burnt face for all to see.

It was the first time that Rhaegar had seen the scars his father had given The Burnt Lord and it was horrifying beyond his wildest imaginations. How the man had even survived was beyond Rhaegar’s thoughts, for he had seen better men die of less.

Him and his men pushed forward, determined to face Rickard Stark in battle, but to his dismay the lines never met. Instead the air was filled with black arrows and they fell all around. Rhaegar held his shield over his head, protecting him from the worst but he saw that already one of the Darry bothers had fallen with an arrow through his stomach, while Richard Lonmouth’s horse suffered from an arrow through the flank that saw it throw Richard off and stampede away.

Rhaegar was forced to stop and revaluate the battlefield. It seemed Rickard had placed his archers along the top of the ridge, while his infantry protected his left and right flanks. Another infantry division sat in his centre, but this division was supplemented by a large group of heavy cavalry, which where bearing down on them now.

The amount of men that Rickard Stark had managed to muster was mind boggling, especially when he turned and saw that the hosts designed to cut off his escape were almost in position. He must have gathered at least 100,00 men here. To gather so many he must have recalled the Company of the Rose, but Varys had told him the Company was still in Braavos and had no intention of returning for the conflict.

A memory of Lyanna sprung into his mind then and he cursed at what he did not see. He had mocked her for being from the North, one of the weakest kingdoms and she had simply smiled before saying “you know nothing, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The truth was so horrifying he wondered how long the Stark’s had been planning this. When Aegon conquered the North, Torrhen Stark had mustered 20,000 men. To muster 100,000 men today, as well as a navy that was raiding up and down the Crownlands and relieving Storm’s End was a feat of nation building that must have been in place from the second Aegon the conqueror stepped foot in Westeros. It was no good to think on the past when he was in the present though Rhaegar surmised before switching his gaze back to the hosts that were attempting to cut off their escape.

If he waited much longer the opportunity to leave would be gone, and he would either win, a prospect that was looking more and more unlikely, or his host would be wiped out.

He heard his name being called and looked upwards to see Robert Baratheon bearing down on him, his antlered helm firmly on his head and his massive Warhammer swinging through the air in large dangerous sweeps.

“Kill Robert!” He roared at his men as he turned and spurred his horse forward. He didn’t even look back to see if his men had followed, instead only focusing everything on killing the drunken whoremonger who believed that Lyanna belonged to him.

They met with a clash so horrible, both men were thrown from their horses. Rhaegar scrambled to his feet and went to engage Robert but was beaten there by the rest of his men. To Robert’s credit, he did not even shirk.

With a speed and a grace that belied his size, he swung his massive Warhammer into the chest of a Dornish lord’s horse, stopping it dead. The horse tumbled over, blood pouring out of its mouth, screaming in agony. The Dornish lord was caught beneath his horse, and another swing from Robert’s hammer ended him as well.

One of the Darry brother’s moved to engage then, planning to ride Robert down, but Robert dodged out of the way, and instead swung his hammer into the man’s shoulder, throwing him from his horse. Without even breaking stride, he grabbed Darry’s horse’s reigns and swung himself into the saddle of the chestnut mare. Wheeling the horse around, he came blow to blow with another dornishman and killed him quickly before going after the last surviving Darry brother.

Robert was a demon, swinging with an ungodly strength that popped his opponents head off cleanly. Richard Lonmouth ran past Rhaegar, his sword drawn and shield held defensively. He went to engage the stag lord, only to be rebuffed by a series of massive swings that left him with a broken arm.

Rhaegar rushed forward himself, calling Robert’s name as he ran. Robert turned and saw him and charged back at him. They met in a series of slashes and swings that left Rhaegar’s arms numb with the force of them. Rhaegar backpedalled away from Robert’s swings, only to trip over one of his fallen comrades. Robert raised his hammer and swung it down at his chest. Rhaegar rolled out of the way and it only caught him on the side of his ribs, his armour protecting him from the worst of the blow. It still hurt though and if the cracking was anything to go by he had broken more than one rib. Gasping in pain, Rhaegar crawled backwards, away from the demon who had come to plague him so.

“For Lyanna!” Robert roared as he swung his hammer at Rhaegar’s head. The hammer filled his vision and Rhaegar closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitably of death. Strangely he didn’t feel sad for himself, but only happy that the prophecy would be fulfilled. His son would avenge him, and lead the world against the forces of darkness had plagued it so. When he didn’t feel the sting of Robert’s hammer he opened his eyes to see only the pristine white sword of Ser Barristan Selmy, holding back the swing of Robert’s hammer.

Rhaegar scrambled backwards, away from the white blade that had saved his life.

“Run Rhaegar.” Ser Barristan said as he pushed Robert back. “Now, while you still have the chance.”

Rhaegar looked around and saw the horrible state of the battle. The rebel’s flanks had marched down and were crushing his own flanks in a brutal pincer movement. Behind his host, one of Rickard Stark’s spare hosts had managed to get into position, blocking off half of the Kingsroad.

It was now or never. Heart twisting in agony at what he was about to do, Rhaegar turned and ran. He snatched the reigns of a riderless horse and swung himself into the saddle, his broken ribs feeling like they were on fire. Every jolt of the saddle sent lances of pain running up Rhaegar’s left side.

He kicked the horse’s sides and it begun to run through the battlefield, through the masses of fighting men. Thankfully his centre was still relatively intact so his retreat was largely unhindered.

Many of his men saw him running and as he feared they began to throw down their weapons and drop to their knees. Even more ran after him, attempting to escape the slaughter of the ford, a slaughter which saw the water run red with blood, so dark that it glistened like the rubies on Rhaegar’s breastplate.

Rhaegar’s horse galloped through the ford and up the other side of the river. It was going to be close, the other host was almost in positon. There was a narrow strip of land that was as of yet unhindered. He kicked his horses flanks harder, and to his immense relief made it through the gap before it could close. Turning his head caused him to burst into tears. He was the only one who had made it through. On the other side of the mass of Northern soldiers his army was being slaughtered.

Crying openly he continued on, running into the forests on the side of the Kingsroad and away from the demons of the battle.

 

Rickard

Rickard Stark slammed his spurs into his horse’s sides and it shot forward, feet drumming against the ground, muscles straining in exertion. He thundered through the mass of men, his large war horse smashing men out of his way as he pursued Rhaegar’s retreating figure.

“Rhaegar!” He roared, “Come and fight me you coward!”

Rhaegar continued to flee on his black stallion, either ignoring Rickard or not hearing him.

Rickard saw Robert and resisted the urge to stop and kill him. Because of him Rhaegar was getting away before the trap had been properly sprung.

Rickard flicked his reigns and kicked his horse even harder and slowly began to gain to ground on the fleeing dragon. A large knot of men assembled in front of his horse, preparing to halt his pursuit. Roaring wordlessly he yanked his sword from its scabbard and gripped it tightly as he bore down on the men who stood in the way of him and his vengeance.

Then he was upon them, swinging his sword in long sweeping arcs that cleft through metal and flesh like a hot knife through butter.

The men around him fell to his sword, but it was taking too long and there were too many.

He finally managed to break free of the press of men and raced after the disappearing figure, but to his despair the prince had made it through the northern hosts on the south of the Trident.

“Rhaegar!” He roared, his voice cracking in despair, “Rhaegar!”

He thundered forwards and his troops parted for his horse. His horse thundered through the mass of men and to the top of the crest that Rhaegar had disappeared over, but the silver prince was nowhere to be seen.

“No...” Rickard murmured as he slumped from his horse and onto his knees.

“NO!” Rickard roared as tears begun to fall down his face.

His chance at vengeance was gone. He had broken his last vow to his son. His chance to insult the Targaryens, honour his gods and warn the world of his wrath was gone, disappeared over the hill with Rhaegar Targaryen.

In his mind’s eye he saw his son’s bloodied and bruised face, covered in cuts and blood.

No, he thought, it is not over till it’s over.

With renewed vigour he jumped onto his horse and pushed it down the hill and into the woods in which Rhaegar Targaryen was lurking.

Wounded and weary as Rhaegar was, he couldn’t have gotten far without needing to stop. When he did stop, the Burnt Lord would find him, and when he did find him The Burnt Lord’s vengeance would be nigh.


	43. Eddard XI: Death of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy occurs. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few people have been asking about a sort of compendium or history of the north in this AU. It is coming (like winter), but I will not publish it until I have finished this work.

Eddard steered his horse through the woods, searching for the escaped silver prince. Beside him rode Rodrick Walton, one of his large wolves sniffing the ground in front of them and leading them through the woods, and hopefully towards the silver prince that had stolen so much from him.

The wolf stopped suddenly and turned its head, its great snout pushing through the leaves. Suddenly it gave a bark of delight and bolted off, following whatever scent had caught its interest. Ned spurred his horse after it and soon he began to notice the signs of someone riding through here at great speed.

There was a snapped branch there, a few bent blades of grass over there and some hoof prints in the mud down there.

Ahead of him Ned heard a yell and he rode into the clearing to see his father and Rhaegar fighting furiously. As he watched on in horror, Rhaegar managed to slip past his father’s guard and buried his sword in his father’s neck.

“No!” Ned cried as he vaulted from his own horse, drawing his blade as he ran. Blood poured out of his father’s throat and his lifeless body toppled to the ground. “Father!” He cried as he rushed the silver prince. He swing his blade blindly and through sheer luck caught the inside of Rhaegar’s left gauntlet. His hand fell away, but it had left Ned seriously exposed. Rhaegar struck out with his own blade and shoved it through Ned’s light leather armour and into his heart.

Breathing heavily, and gasping from the pain in his armour Ned reached behind him and grabbed his knife. He pulled it out and shoved it through Rhaegar’s eye. Rhaegar let go of his blade screaming. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, kicking and writhing in agony. Ned stumbled backwards, only to be caught by a pair of bronze clad arms.

“Rodrick.” Ned breathed.

“Breath lad.” Rodrick said as tears fell down his face. “You’re going to be alright.”

Ned laughed weakly. “No I’m not.” Ned looked up at Rodrick fearfully, “Tell Ashara I love her. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her…”

“Ned?” Rodrick asked, but Ned didn’t respond. His breathing grew faint, and then the darkness enveloped him.


	44. Eddard XII: The Last Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, as many of you correctly guessed yesterday's chapter was an April fool's joke. Hope you enjoyed. Here is the real chapter, I hope you enjoy it more than the last one. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

“He got away.”

Ned didn’t have to ask who, there could only be one person who Rodrick would bother informing him had gotten away. Ned nodded. “Do you know where he is?”

Rodrick nodded. “I’ve got a warg keeping an eye on him with an eagle, and one of my wolves has his scent.”

“Let’s get him.”

Rodrick nodded and together they made their way out of the copse of trees they had been hiding in and in the direction Rodrick directed. One of his wolves padded along in front of them, it’s great snout pressed to the ground, following the invisible trail only it could detect.

They had been following the wolf for at least an hour when Ned first noticed the signs of someone moving through here recently.

A low hanging branch had been snapped off, and in the mud of a puddle a horses hoof prints could be clearly seen. Rodrick closed his eyes for a second, before giving his attention back to Ned.

“He’s just up ahead, in a clearing by a pool of water. He’s injured.”

Ned nodded. “I would have been surprised if he wasn’t.”

Together the two of them made their way to the clearing where Rhaegar was. The second they entered the clearing the horse that Rhaegar had fled on bolted away at the scent of the apex predator that padded along silently beside them.

Rhaegar turned his head towards them, his body propped up on a rock next to a shallow pool of water.

“I’m afraid I have you at a disadvantage.” Rhaegar said. “What would your names be?”

Ned wordlessly reached up and removed his helm. He saw Rhaegar’s eyes shift as he saw him. They went from quiet despair to an almost sort of…hope?

“Lord Stark.” Rhaegar greeted with a slight incline of his head. “I’m sorry to not be seeing you in better circumstances.”

“Me too.” Ned responded with a sigh.

“I didn’t kidnap her you know.”

Ned averted his gaze. “Who cares anymore?”

Rhaegar laughed weakly. “Your right. No one cares anymore. It’s become more than just a girl that couldn’t bear to live with the life her father made for her?”

“You blame us?”

“A war is coming Ned.”

“It’s Eddard.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. A war is coming. The dragon needed three heads. I did what had to be done. I can die happy, knowing the world is safe.”

Ned shook his head. “The war is already here you fool. You’re losing.”

“No.” Rhaegar responded. “In the end it shall be you who loses. You will be hit first.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this Rhaegar.” Ned turned to Rodrick. “Take him.”

Rodrick strolled forward and cracked Rhaegar across the head with his bronze gauntlet. It hit with a sickening crack, and Rhaegar dropped forward, knocked out cold.

Ned dragged him over to his horse and threw him unceremoniously over the saddle. He grabbed his horse’s reigns and began to lead it away, back to the Kingsroad. Rodrick walked beside him, both of them lost in thought.

Ned lifted his head suddenly as the sound of beating hooves, filled the air. He looked up to see his father bearing down on them, a look of murderous rage plastered over his face. Ned stopped his horse and threw Rhaegar’s body to the ground.

Rickard Stark pulled his horse in as he approached.

“I heard you were missing this.” Ned said as he mounted his horse.

“Aye. It’s all your foolish foster’s brother’s fault! The idiot rushed Rhaegar before the auxiliary hosts were in position. We managed to capture his army but he still got away.”

“He’s always been like that. How was the rest of the battle?”

“Quick. How was Tarly?”

“It went as expected.”

“Good.”

Ned nodded, suddenly very tired. “I’m going to go and find myself a nice bed to lie down in and have a rest. Call me when you have a need of me.”

Rickard nodded, and Ned kicked his horse’s sides, leading it to his tent on the Trident, where hopefully he could find himself some rest and hot food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be taking a break for a few days so don't expect an update for a few days yet. Hope you don't mind too much, I'll be back soon!


	45. Rhaegar I: Bloody Brandon The Blessed Bastard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard and Rhaegar have a conversation. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

When Rhaegar awoke he was surprised to see that he was still alive and all in one piece. Indeed it looked as though someone had been sent to treat his wounds, as his broken ribs had been bandaged, and the cut on his head treated. He sat up and looked around the tent he was in. It was sparsely decorated and quite martial. It contained the cot on which he lay and a table with two chairs. Unfortunately there was no food or drink anywhere to be seen, and Rhaegar’s parched throat ached considerably.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot and struggled to his feet. He was dressed only in breeches, and grabbed the blanket from his bed to wrap around his bare chest. He winced as he made his way across the tent and to the flap of heavy wool that served as a door. He pushed it aside and stepped outside.

He was greeted with the sight of a military encampment, thousands of tents large, amassed along the north of the Trident. In the far distance, he could see the bloody waters the river, and on the opposite bank piles of bodies. Immediately he was accosted by two soldiers clad in a strange bronze armour that Rhaegar had never seen before. They grasped him about the arms and frog-marched him back into the tent. “Wait here.” One of them said.

“Wait!” Rhaegar rasped, “Can I have some water?”

The two men didn’t listen however and marched straight back out. Sighing in resignation Rhaegar stumbled back to the bed and lay down. As he stared up at the roof, his thoughts wandered to the crushing defeat that he had just received, and the massive army that had broken him. Lyanna was right it seemed, Rhaegar did know nothing. When the direwolf’s fury was aroused it was a terrible thing to behold. Rhaegar had poked the beast when he ran away with Lyanna, but his father had truly awoken it when he killed Brandon Stark and left Rickard Stark horribly burnt.

Not only had Rickard Stark utterly outnumbered him, he had also utterly outmanouvered him, trapping his host within the waters of the Trident. Rhaegar had been provoked and his troops had paid the ultimate price for his anger. He wondered where Ser Barristan was, if he even lived.

For once, Rhaegar was glad that Ser Arthur wasn’t by his side. He would have died also. Not even the Sword of the Morning would have been able to hold back the ocean of men that fell against them. He wondered what had happened to Randyll Tarly’s troops.

Either they had never come, which Rhaegar doubted, or even more foreboding, another host had managed to stop his march up the Kingsroad, an outcome that was even more terrible to behold. The sheer mass of men that Rickard Stark had managed to array against them was simply put, almost unbelievable. Indeed, Rhaegar would not have believed it himself if he hadn’t seen the proof with his own two eyes.

Torrhen Stark had faced his ancestor Aegon the conqueror with 30,000 men. Rickard Stark had fielded at least 100,000 men against him at the Trident. He wondered how many men Rickard had left behind. His ancestors were fools. There was so much they did not know of the North. For so long they had been content believing the tales spun of a poor backwater region, filled with barbarian heathens.

They should have known. The Stark’s controlled the largest region of Westeros. The Stark’s had the featly of the largest and most prestigious sellsword company in the world, The Company of The Rose.

Rhaegar wondered if Torrhen had even brought his full strength to the Trident. To build an army like the one Rickard Stark had fielded, you first had to build a nation, a tremendous feat that many greater and richer rulers had failed at. Perhaps Torrhen had known of the power of dragons and instead was content to sit down, until the day when dragons would disappear from the world, a day in which the direwolf could rise up again, and throw the shackles of dragonfire off.

The dragons had been dead for almost 150 years however, and the Stark’s had sat in silence. No, Rhaegar thought, there was something he was missing, some unknown factor that had stayed the Stark’s hand for all these years.

Curse his father, Rhaegar thought, curse his father for bringing this monster down upon them. How long where the Stark’s content to kneel though? How long until they grew tired of kneeling at his family’s knee? How long would have they stayed bowed for though?

Rhaegar heard a rustling and a shaft of sunlight entered the gloomy interior of the tent. Rhaegar turned his head to the door to see Rickard Stark standing there, holding a tray of food and a jug of water. He was dressed in the heavy furs that the northerners favoured, but over his furs he had thrown a dark grey cloak with a large cowl.

Strapped to his back was the Valyrian Steel greatsword, _Ice_. At his side rested a knife, and Rhaegar suspected he saw the outline of another in his boot.

Rickard stepped into the tent and placed the tray and jug on the table. He sat down in one of the chairs and gestured for Rhaegar to sit in the other. Rhaegar got up from the cot and sat down across from Lord Rickard.

This was the first time that Rhaegar had seen Rickard Stark’s scars up close, and they were even more grotesque than he had ever imagined. The skin had seemed to melt, before burning away, leaving a riddled, marred and melted mess. Rhaegar could not see a single hair anywhere on the man, and perhaps most horrifying was where the patch of skin had totally melted away revealing the tender pink tendons of his cheekbone.

“Terrible to behold aren’t they?” Rickard asked as he caught the direction of Rhaegar’s gaze.

Rhaegar started, alarmed at having been caught staring. Rheagar swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from the grim visage of The Burnt Lord. “Aye.” He replied.

Rickard Stark snorted before gesturing to the food that he had brought with him. “What would you like?”

Rhaegar shifted his gaze to the tray he had brought. There was some roast meat, a leafy salad, half of a cooked chicken and some fresh fruit. His eyes shifted to the jug and Rickard nodded, before picking the jug up and pouring him a cup of water.

Rheagar drank gratefully, appeasing the parched flesh of his throat. “Thank you.” Rhaegar said before picking up one of the peaches that were sitting on the tray. He bit into it and the fruit’s juices dribbled down his chin. He scarfed it down as quickly as he could, sating the gnawing in his stomach before picking up some of the roast meat and eating it at a much more relaxed pace.

The whole time Rickard Stark just sat there watching him, not saying a word.

When he had eaten his fill Rheagar turned his attention back to Rickard. “What have you kept me alive for?”

Rickard shrugged. “Why do you think?”

Rheagar thought deeply for a minute. “You want to know where your daughter is?”

Rickard didn’t respond, just sat there watching him. After a few seconds it become very awkward so Rhaegar hurried to fill the silence. “The first thing I want you to know is that I did not kidnap your daughter. We fell in love and I intend to make her my queen.”

Rickard’s face muscles moved, and Rhaegar assumed he was attempting a frown. “You wish to make her your queen? You’re already married.”

Rhaeger nodded. “That I am. However the Targaryen’s marriage rules have always been…different…to everyone else’s.”

“So you would seek to make her your second wife?”

“Yes.”

“And what of any children she has?”

“They would sit in the line of succession as any other child of mine.”

“You would potentially put Stark blood on the iron throne?”

Rhaegar nodded. If he could convince Rickard Stark to help him, maybe he could still overthrow his father. It was his only hope now, the last option left to him. It wouldn’t have been his first option, but he would make do with what he had. Please gods, Rhaegar prayed, let him be convinced.

“I would. Our two houses were allies for centuries and those were the best centuries the seven kingdoms have ever known, centuries of peace and prosperity, with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. They call me The Last Dragon Lord Rickard, honour the pledge your ancestors made, help me depose my father and I will pardon you all for rebelling.”

Rickard stayed silent, just observing Rhaegar and Rhaegar decided to push on. “When Torrhen bent the knee he had 30,000 men. You fielded at least 100,000 here today. Under Targaryen rule your lands and house have flourished. Imagine what we can accomplish together in another 300 years of Targaryen rule! Together we will lead these kingdoms to the greatest heights! Together we can be remembered as the two men that forged an empire greater than that of Old Valyria!”

Rickard began to laugh then and Rheagar wondered if he had said something wrong. Rickard leant forward and rested his elbows on the table.

“Excuse my bluntness _Prince_ Rhaegar, but I don’t give a fuck about Lyanna or whatever slum you’ve holed her up in. If I wanted to know her location I could find out by tomorrow. I didn’t march south for her. I didn’t swear to avenge her. I swore to avenge the son your mad father took from me. That is what I came south for and that is why your with me today instead of lying dead in the waters of the Trident.”

“Please Lord Stark, I know my father’s madness better than any.”

Rickard laughed again. “Even better than me?”

Rhaegar swallowed before averting his gaze.

“I didn’t think so!” Rickard spat.

Rhaegar sighed. He had to try, he owed it too Lyanna. “Please Lord Stark,” He beseeched, “House Targaryen’s rule has benefited your house greatly. Allow that to continue.”

Rickard frowned at him. “Pray tell, how did House Targaryen’s rule benefit House Stark?”

Rheagar frowned. “Am I wrong? Has the North not flourished in the last 300 years?”

“Wrong you are, but not about that.”

“What then am I wrong about?”

“House Targaryen had nothing to do with the rise of the north. Well, no that’s not exactly true. Because of you, we were inspired to be greater, but you did nothing to actively build the North.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you heard of Bloody Brandon the Blessed Bastard?”

“Do you mean Torrhen Stark’s bastard brother?”

“Yes.”

“I know a little of him.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“He didn’t want to bend to the Targaryen’s so he fled east and founded The Company of The Rose who grew into the most powerful sellsword group of all time.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Yes.”

Rickard snorted in amusement. “You know nothing Rhaegar Targaryen. Let me tell you the full story.”

Rickard stood up and began to pace. “When Aegon first landed in Westeros and began his conquest of the seven kingdoms, Brandon Snow, unlike everyone else believed him to be a threat. So he began to research how to kill dragons. No one knows if his research was right, but he believed he had found a way to kill dragons. So Torrhen Stark marched south to take on Aegon’s army. As you would well know by now, there Torrhen was greeted with three dragons and 45,000 men, more than he had brought with him.  
Torrhen made a decision then, because he knew that even if his brother succeeded in killing the dragons, he would still have to stave off the larger Targaryen army, something he knew he would be unable to do. So he placed his people before his pride and bent the knee, earning the wroth of his bastard brother and all his sons.  
Brandon, wroth with his brother, helped forge the peace process and then left, where to, no one knew. Many believed he had gone to gather the lords who did not want to bend the knee, but the moons passed and no one had heard nor seen of any trace of him. Torrhen mourned at the brother he had lost, and his sons mourned the uncle that had gone. Torrhen pushed on though, beginning his new role as Warden of the North.  
More than three moons had passed since Torrhen had bent the knee, and Torrhen was holding court in Winterfell. On this particular day he was trying a man that had been accused of rape. In the middle of the proceedings the doors slammed open and in strode a strange man no one had seen before. His hair was as white as the snow which fell from the sky, and the pupils of his eyes were as red as the sap that dripped from the faces of the Weirwoods. Without a word he strode into the hall, grabbed the man by arm and began to drag him out of the hall. Those present were so surprised at the boldness of his actions, it took them a while to respond. He managed to make it to the door before being confronted. Ignoring the protests of the guards that went to stop him, he made his way to the godswood of Winterfell.  
The court had followed him, their curiosity aroused by the strange albino that had interrupted proceedings so. With Torrhen that day were many of the great lords of the North including the Boltons, Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys, Mormonts, Glovers, Dustins, Ryswells, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Hornwoods and the Reeds of the Neck. In the North to this day these houses are regarded as the founding families because of what they witnesses that day.  
So this strange albino man had taken the rapist from the hall and dragged him before the heart tree of Winterfell. The court assembled to see what he was going to do, and when the man spoke Torrhen finally recognised him. His bastard brother had returned home. He gave a short speech of why the North had lost its crown. It was good, but it wasn’t memorable, indeed the words he spoke have been lost to time.  
It was what he did next that became the stuff of legends within The North. He pulled out a dragonglass dagger and plunged it deep into the man’s belly and cut a jagged hole. Then he reached in with his bare hands and pulled out the man’s innards before throwing them into the boughs of the tree. Then he slit the struggling man’s throat, and left his corpse lying in front of the tree.  
The court, which till now had remained silent in horror, surged forward determined to stop this madman.”

Rickard laughed then, before turning back to Rhaegar with a mad glint in his eye.

“What happened next is sacred knowledge only known to the direct ancestors of those who were present, but at the end it was agreed that the Old Gods had reawaken. Weirwoods began to grow in the south again, the green men ended their self-imposed exile upon the isle of faces. The lords of the north stopped sending their criminals to the wall and instead begun to give them to the gods and the Weirwoods continued to be fed by the blood of the unworthy. And thus the power of the Old Gods grew, and with the growing power of the Old Gods so too did the power of the North.  
The gods had gifted Brandon Snow with knowledge you see, and Brandon used this knowledge to begin the forging of a nation that the world would tremble before.  
And thus we grew, our power continuing to expand, our wealth continuing to grow and our strength continuing to multiply till this day.”

Rickard paced the length of the tent once more before returning to his seat. “You see Rhaegar,” He snarled, “You Targaryen’s had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with our strength. All we have built, we have built upon our own backs with the blessings of our gods, the old gods, the gods that were here before us and shall be here after us!”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I see,” he said carefully. “So what do you want with me?”

Rickard smirked before getting to his feet. He turned to leave before stopping at the door. “Bloody Brandon the Blessed used the blood of a _common_ criminal to awake our gods from a slumber of over a thousand years.”

He turned his head then, and looked back at Rhaegar with a strange…hunger…in his eyes. “Imagine what our gods will be able to do with the blood of old Valyria feeding their roots…”

On that grim note Rickard Stark left the tent, leaving Rhaegar to stew on all he had just heard.


	46. Tywin II: I've Heard your Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin receives some news. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Tywin Lannister watched from doorway of his tent as his army drilled on the fields in front of him. The sight filled him with pride. He had built this army from almost nothing. His weakling of a father had led his house to the verge of ruin, but Tywin had built it back up. Where his house was once laughed about in taverns, it was now whispered of in fear.

_And who are you the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_

Who was Aerys, Tywin thought, to demand that he bow so low?

He had insulted his house, he had threatened the legacy of house Lannister and most unforgivably he had stolen his heir. Well a reckoning was coming. Aerys had demanded his troops, and his troops he would receive.

He watched as a rider appeared on the horizon, his horse thundering through the fields of marching men. Perhaps this man brought news of the Trident. Perhaps he would tell him how he would kill Aerys. Would he die at the hand of a disgruntled rebel or by the hands of a Lannister himself?

The messenger reigned his horse in as he approached Tywin’s pavilion and stopped a few feet away. Kevan Lannister, his ever dutiful brother, moved to intercept the messenger. Tywin turned away and returned into his tent. If it was of importance Kevan would let him know.

He was in the middle of pouring himself a cup of wine when Kevan finally entered.

“Well?” Tywin asked.

Kevan just handed him a scroll. Tywin took a sip of his wine before putting the cup down and grabbing the scroll from Kevan’s grasp. He rolled it open and read the words written on the inside.

_Rhaegar Targaryen’s host was utterly defeated._

_Rickard Stark managed to trap the entire host in the waters of the Trident._

_Tarly’s host has disappeared, assumed destroyed._

_Rhaegar Targaryen’s fate is unknown. He escaped the battlefield but was believed to have been caught by Rickard Stark._

_The way to King’s Landing is clear._

The corners of Tywin Lannister’s mouth twitched. Perhaps he had underestimated The Burnt Lord. It seemed Aery’s would get to die at the hands of a Lannister after all.

“What do we do about Rhaegar?” Kevan asked.

“What of him?”

“It says his fate is unknown.”

“His army is broken. If he somehow managed to escape Rickard Stark he is friendless and most likely alone. If he didn’t then he’s as good as dead. Rickard Stark will not forget the loss of his son or the kidnapping of his daughter. If his death is anything but slow and painful I would be most surprised.”

Kevan nodded before taking a sip of his own wine. “How do you think he did it?”

“Who did what?”

“Rickard Stark.” Kevan clarified. “How do you think he managed to trap and defeat their entire army?”

Tywin shrugged. “I’m sure we will learn in time. What I want to know is what happened to Tarly’s host. It’s not just any man that can defeat Randyll Tarly in battle. He was said to have a host 20,000 men strong.”

Kevan nodded. “It’s almost uncanny. A host of 20,000 men doesn’t just go missing.”

“Regardless, this means that we can move on. Aerys’s time is up. It is time he gets the Lannister troops he demanded.”

Kevan nodded. “I’ll go and ready the troops.”

Tywin nodded. “Send me Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch when you see them. I have a very special assignment for them.”

Kevan nodded and left.

He was waiting for almost half an hour before the two of them finally made their way into his presence. They arrived almost at the same time, and when Amory held the flap of cloth open that served as a door a small swallow flew in with him. It settled in the rafters of the tent, twittering and flying around before finally finding a resting place it liked and calming down.

Returning his gaze to his two soldiers, Tywin gestured for them to sit.

“We have received news from the North.” Tywin began, “It seems Rickard Stark and his barabarians managed to trap and defeat Rhaegar’s host. At the same time, Randyll Tarly’s host has gone missing, presumed destroyed. The way to King’s Landing is clear.”

Ser Gregor grunted in acknowledgment before picking up the jug of wine and downing most of it in one gulp. Tywin eyed him in distaste before continuing.

“When we get to King’s Landing I have a special assignment for the both of you, one that requires you to be discrete.”

Amory Lorch nodded. “What do you need done?”

“When all this is done and dusted I want Lannister blood sitting on the Iron Throne. Currently there are a few people standing in the way of this.”

“You want us to kill the dornish wench and her kids?” Amory asked.

“Yes.” Tywin said. “They will be a threat to Robert’s rule. It will ensure that there will be no challengers to Robert’s rule and prove to Robert that we are loyal and trustworthy servants.”

Amory nodded. “Consider it done.”

“Good.” Tywin said as he shifted his gaze to Ser Gregor. “And you? Do you have any objections?”

“None at all.” Ser Gregor replied.

“I want this done discretely. I don’t want their ghosts coming back to haunt me. Am I clear?”

Amory and Gregor nodded and Tywin dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

Tywin rose from his seat and followed them out of his tent. In the distance he could see his army packing up, preparing to move out. Soon Lannister blood would be seated upon the Iron Throne. Soon Aerys would fall, and then Tywin’s vengeance would be upon him.

Robert Baratheon would be king, Cersei Lannister would be queen and the Targaryen dynasty would fall at the hands of a Lannister. It would be glorious and remind all why Tywin Lannister was a man to be feared. He had taken down his father, he had destroyed the Reynes of Castamere and soon the Rains of Castamere would be forgotten, to be replaced with the Targaryen’s of Dragonstone.

Thank the gods for fools like Rickard Stark, Tywin thought, thank the gods for fools who pushed this country to war.


	47. Ashara V: The Falling Stars.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara and Arthur had a think. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that everyone has their view and wants to share it, but please be respectful of other people's opinions. We don't always have to agree, as a matter of fact it is our differences that make us interesting, but we need to have a basic level of respect for other people's opinions. Thanks for your guys continued support and feedback! Really appreciate it, it is what drives me to finish this so keep them coming!

Rhaegar had been defeated. His army had been scattered amongst the waters of the Trident, his support frozen by the harsh northern winds and if the rumours were to be believed his life was forfeit. What had happened to Rhaegar no one seemed to know?

The ravens they had received all contradicted the sayings of the others. One said that he had fallen to Robert Baratheon’s Warhammer, another said he had escaped and retreated to King’s Landing, while other’s suggested that he was Rickard Stark’s captive. The most amusing one she had read so far was the one that suggested her Ned had captured him himself.

Ned was a fine warrior, but Rhaegar had been trained alongside the Sword of The Morning. Then again, she remembered what Ned had told her and Jon Arryn. If the North could field 140,000 men maybe it didn’t matter and Ned had merely been the one to deliver the blow that broke Rhaegar, the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

Her brother had arrived a few days after she had received the first raven, seeking supplies for himself and his companions. Arthur had been absolutely broken when he read the raven. He had retreated to his room and wept like a child for ages. When he finally emerged he had taken the supplies and left without even saying goodbye.

She was glad he was hurting. He deserved to lose those he cared about like she had lost her Ned. He deserved to lose his silver prince like she had lost her Quiet Wolf.

She still mourned for what she had lost. Her child was growing within her, the last piece of him she had left apart from the bracelet of dry wood that encircled her wrist. It had been six moons since she had last seen him, and six moons since he had lain with her.

Her loins burned as she thought of the nights they spent together, entangled in each other’s arms. She doubted that Catelyn Tully would ever be able to give him what Ashara had. At least Ned had loved her, and come to her bed willingly. She hadn’t even had to ask him in the end, a fact that amused her to no end.

When she had stopped pursuing him was when he finally gave her what she wanted most. In her belly her child kicked and Ashara smiled down at the growing bump. She hoped that her child would have Ned’s eyes, not hers. She hoped her child would have eyes of steel that would melt away to a foggy grey when stirred to love, like Ned’s did whenever he looked at her. Ned would never look at Catelyn Tully like that.

Gods…where did everything go wrong. What had happened?

The pain inside was unbearable sometimes. Not from her belly, no, from her heart. Ashara wondered if anyone had ever died of a broken heart. That’s what she felt like sometimes, and it drained the will to live right out of her. What was life without love? What was life without Ned?

Gods…

 

**Arthur III:**

“Rhaegar was defeated.”

They were the three simple words that had torn his world apart. Ashara had been the first to tell him and he wasn’t sure what had hurt him more. Whether it was the fact that Rhaegar was most probably dead, or the triumphant glint in Ashara’s eyes when she told him so.

Gods Arthur had been a fool. Rhaegar had doomed the realm to war and Arthur had sat back and watched as he had done so. The glint in Ashara’s eyes though had hurt the most.

He knew she had loved Eddard Stark. He knew she wanted to marry him. He knew, gods he had been there when they had knelt together before a heart tree and in her eyes he had destroyed her dreams with his own hands.

He had been so dumb.

“What happened?” Ser Gerold asked him.

Arthur glanced at him. “Rhaegar was defeated.” Arthur repeated, still not sure if he believed it himself.

“Really?” Ser Oswell asked sarcastically, “How was Rhaegar defeated?”

“They say Rickard Stark managed to trap his entire army in the waters of the Trident.”

“The entire host!” Ser Gerold exclaimed, “Where did they get the men?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur exclaimed.

“Maybe they recalled the Company of the Rose?” Ser Oswell suggested.

“They didn’t. Apparently the Company is still in Braavos.”

“They should have only been able to field 40,000 men!”

“How many men does the North have?”

“I don’t know!”

Ser Oswell shifted. “You know who would know?”

Arthur glanced at his old friend. “Who?”

Oswell glanced to the tower behind them. “She would.”

“Your right.” Ser Gerold said. “Let’s go and ask her now.”

Together the three men got to the feet and wandered into the tower, up the stairs and into her room. She was sitting by a window, staring out across the desert while the midwife that Arthur had brought from Starfall was seated across from her, working on some embroidery. She glanced at them as they entered and smirked. “What have I done to deserve the company of all three of you at the same time?”

“We want answers.”

Lyanna’s smirk disappeared and was replaced by a look of such grief that Arthur could not help but feel a little sorry for the poor girl. “I take it then that Rhaegar has fallen?”

“Yes.” Ser Gerold replied.

“You fools.” Lyanna said, “I warned you, I told you, I was the only one capable of stopping this conflict, and instead you kept me here. What do you want to know?”

“How many men can your father field?”

Lyanna frowned. “I’ll answer that when you tell me the truth of everything that happened.”

Arthur glanced at the Lord Commander, who nodded at him. “Rhaegar left King’s Landing with 55,000 troops. He called for 20,000 more troops from Storm’s End. The first host was trapped and destroyed at the Trident, the second went missing.”

Lyanna turned away and returned her gaze to the desert. “You’re all doomed.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur asked.

“Run away. Flee. Get out of here.”

“We are Kingsguard.” Ser Gerold said, “We do not flee.”

“Fools.” She hissed. “You’ll die then.”

“I think whoever comes will find us more than able to put up a fight.”

Lyanna laughed bitterly. “There is no standing against the hellfire my father will bring. Do you think the host that went missing just got lost and will show up in a few weeks? No” She snarled, “No. Their dead, all of them.”

“How can you know?” Ser Oswell asked.

“How can I know? All in the North know of the Mount Starpoint. No one knows what it housed, but if an entire host went missing, I would say that my father opened it’s gates. If the gates of Mount Starpoint are open, the Targaryen’s are doomed.”

“How do you know?”

“Dead men tell no tells.” Lyanna said. “The last thing my father wants is anyone learning of his secret weapon!”

“What is it? What is his secret weapon?”

Lyanna looked at him with eyebrows raised. “You expect me to tell you?”

“Yes.” Ser Gerold replied.

“I don’t know.” She replied.

“Bullshit.” Ser Oswell said.

“I’m not lying. The only people who know what lies behind those gates is The Lord of Winterfell and the Heir. It is otherwise forbidden knowledge.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Trying to get answers out of her was like trying to get a mule to drink. “How many men can your father field?” He asked again. “Or do you not know that either?”

She glanced at him. “No I know. The real question is whether you are sure you want to know?”

“Yes.” Ser Gerold insisted.

“140,000 men.” Lyanna replied and Arthur felt his heart stop.


	48. Eddard XIII: The Race to King's Landing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a race. Who will win?  
> Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

The Northern cavalry marched out of the camp on the Trident in three long lines, some 40,000 riders. Eddard Stark sat upon the other side of the Trident and watched as the lines crossed the river and formed into marching columns on the other side. His father had already sent the Weirwood Warriors ahead under the command of their Lord Commander, Rodrick Walton. They had taken the underground and left almost a few days earlier with orders to secure the gates and other strategic points within the city. His father sat beside him now, his grim spectre haunting the otherwise pleasant surroundings. The signs of the battle that had raged here almost three weeks ago now was almost gone. The bloodied waters had been washed away, the bodies of the fallen burnt and the first shoots of grass had begun to shoot up in the ground that had been torn apart by marching feet and pounding hooves.

Ned looked over his shoulder where Rhaegar sat, perched upon his own horse. His hands were bound and he was closely shadowed by Greatjon Umber, Jaremy Darkstark, Torrhen Starkstark and Brandon Starkstarkstark.

The Starkstarks and Starkstarkstarks seemed to be a house of eternal jokers. The two houses were founded by a pair of brothers, who were the second and third sons of the then Lord of Winterfell. As a joke, they had named their houses after their position in the line of succession. Their sons carried on the tradition of being the japing fools of the North, and Ned had to admit they were sometimes very funny people. Both Torrhen and Brandon were renowned for their practical jokes, and at the Tourney of Harrenhall had managed to trick one drunken Reach lord into having sex with a pig. The two of them had had to flee the tourney after that, as the Reach lord had gathered some men and was hunting them down. Regardless of their penchant for practical jokes they were both fine warriors, and took their duties as scions of house Stark most seriously.

The other man guarding Prince Rhaegar, Jaremy Darkstark, was the exact opposite of Torrhen and Brandon. Serious and dour, he had become the prince of brooding since losing his brother in King’s Landing. His brother, Eldric Darkstark, was the finest horseman Ned had ever seen, and would have won the tourney of Harrenhall had Aerys not interfered. Eldric had left an infant son behind, but Jaremy Darkstark had refused to stay in the North and secure his nephews rule, instead riding south as fast as possible to get vengeance for his dead brother. He was nowhere near as good as his dead brother, but then again no one was, and Ned doubted anyone would ever be again. Regardless he was still a good fighter, with a fine sense of duty.

The last of his cavalry force had crossed the river and formed into a marching column. Beside him his father nodded, clearly proud at the discipline instilled in the North’s cavalry. He nodded to the horn blower at his side who blew a note to start the march. The host cantered forward, and Ned tapped the sides of his horse. It trotted forward, Ned taking his place at the head of the column beside his father.

“Will we beat Tywin Lannister?” Ned asked his father as they made their way down the Kingsroad.

“It’ll be tight.” His father managed to reply.

Tywin Lannister was marching down the goldroad as they spoke, intent on capturing the city and presenting it to Robert as a show of fealty. Ned wouldn’t have been bothered and let him take the city, but the Northern spies had reported that he planned to sack the city, and kill the remaining Targaryens. Ned had made a promise to Ashara though, and he would fulfil it as best as he could. He looked down at the weirwood bracelet encircling his wrist, and his mid filled filled with thoughts of the woman he loved.

“I won’t let him have the city.” His father muttered. “He won’t have the honour that rightfully belongs to us!”

Ned wondered if his father was more concerned for the citizens of the city or missing out on his opportunity to have his revenge on Aerys. Ned suspected it was the latter, but he didn’t like what Tywin was doing either. He had sat out the entire war, and now that it was all but done was marching to take a city guarded by green boys and old men. It was a low act, and insulting to all the men that had fought and bled and died at the Trident while Tywin sat safe within the Westerlands.

They made good time the first few days, and the weather seemed to be aiding them. A strong northern breeze was blowing from behind them, bringing cold gusts of air that made Ned long for the halls of Winterfell, where the snow fell and the wind was a constant companion and friend. He often spent the days in the wind wondering of how Benjen was doing. His little brother had been left behind, all alone to run the giant of the North alone. Ned missed the days when they were all at home, when Brandon was still alive, when his father still smiled with joy, when Lyanna hadn’t gone missing. He smiled fondly at the memories before frowning at the realisation that it could never be. Brandon was gone, his father was scarred but Ned would get Lyanna back if it was the last thing he ever did.

The night before they reached the city, Rickard called all the commanders into a meeting. Ned was the last to arrive, having ridden with the very rear of the column for the day. He entered to find most of the lords of the north gathered. His father nodded at his entrance and gestured for him to take his spot by his right side.

Ned went and stood at his shoulder and looked out upon the group of lords.

“We will beat Tywin.” His father began. His declaration was met with cheers of relief and happiness. Few of the men here knew what had been on the line, but it still did not sit well with them that another lord was coming to steal the glory of capturing the city for themselves. Even so, it was a relief for Ned to hear as well, knowing what was on the line. Then his father had to ruin it.

“It will be close though, we will have barely 15 minutes to enact our revenge, take the gates and enter the city. Then it’s a simple race to the Red Keep.”

Ned’s heart sunk. That was an incredibly close margin, and although his father’s spies swore that Tywin planned on taking the city, Ned could not rule out Tywin having a last minute change of heart and attacking them instead. The last thing they wanted was to get trapped between the walls of the city and a hostile force. Everyone knew that was as good as death.

“That is not all though.” His father continued. “There are threats and dangers that can destroy us all if we are not careful.”

“Like what?” Someone down the back called.

“Aerys has been stockpiling Wildfire. He plans to blow the city up upon our entrance. I’ve set some of our assets within the city to securing the caches, but we need to capture the caches for ourselves before we delve deeper into the city. If even one of the caches goes off we all die.”

“Gods…” Someone murmured and Ned could not help but agree. Aerys was truly sick to condemn to death an entire city of innocent people. Not for the first time Ned felt a hatred for the Kingsguard stir within him. It was those knights in shining armour that had stood by as Aerys had torn the realm apart with his madness. It was those knights with white cloaks that had stood by as Aerys had torn his family apart with his madness. Ned did not consider himself to be a vengeful person, but even he could not help the stirrings of anger that filled him when he thought of the Kingsguard.

“There are wildfire caches located under The Great Sept of Baelor, the Dragonpit, the Red Keep, under every gate, and even the Red Keep itself. Lord Darkstark, you will secure the caches under each of the gates. Lord Riverstark, you shall secure the cache under the Sept. Lord Ryswell, you shall secure the caches under the Dragonpit. Rumour has it that there is another cache somewhere in Flea Bottom. Lord Karstark, that cache shall be your responsibility. Lord Umber, you shall take the guildhall of the sick fucks that make this stuff. Secure all of the members and any supplies of the substance they may have. Try to keep at least one of them alive.”

Each of the lords nodded as they were given their tasks, before rushing away to prepare their men.

“Lord Bolton!” His father called and Roose stepped forward. “Your job is to stop the Lannister host, from entering the city if capable, but if not at least limiting the damage they can do. Their army will be coming down the goldroad and most probably enter via the Golden Gate.”

Lord Bolton nodded before turning and rushing away.

“The rest of you are responsible for putting down the defenders of the city.”

All the lords nodded before leaving the tent and going on their way.

“What shall I be doing father?” Ned asked.

His father turned to him. “You and me shall join the Weirwood Warriors and take the Red Keep. When this is all done, Aerys shall die at my hand.”

Ned nodded. “What of Elia Martell and her children?” Ned asked with a hint of trepidation.

His father just smirked at him. “Yours to do with as you please.”

Ned nodded, relieved.

“I’ll have you know though, that Tywin has ordered two of his dogs to kill her and her kids.”

“Who?” Ned asked fearfully.

“Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch.”

Ned swallowed. Gregor Clegane had not earnt the moniker of the Mountain who Rides for nothing. It would be tough.

“Go get some rest.” His father said as he turned away. “You’ll have a big day tomorrow.”

Ned nodded and left, seeking the solace of his own tent. He lay awake in the darkness till late that night, stewing on all the things that could go wrong tomorrow. If he was lucky though, by the time the sun set tomorrow, Aerys would be dead and Elia Martell and her children would be far far away.


	49. The Battle for King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Do not ask how I managed to do this one. Somehow I wrote 10,000 words today. I don't even understand how I did this. Originally this was meant to be broken up over several chapters, but I would finish one part and then not be happy with how it finished so I would continue writing.  
> Please, I put a ton of effort into this, so leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Rickard VI:**

The sun rose on the horizon and The Burnt Lord was awake to greet it. His host was riding down the Kingsroad, towards the walls of King’s Landing that were illuminated by the rising sun. By the time the sun set, the Targaryen dynasty would have all but fallen.

King’s Landing would be in the hands of the Stark’s, to hold until Robert Baratheon arrived to ascend to his kingship. Rickard Stark doubted Robert Baratheon’s ability to run a kingdom, but to be fair Rickard really didn’t care. If Robert was an incompetent king, it would only make it easier for the North to break away when they did. He couldn’t believe he had ever thought of betrothing his daughter to the fool. The man had almost ruined months of careful planning by his reckless and ill-timed charge at Rheagar during The Battle of the Trident. Thankfully Ned had been able to cover for Robert’s mistakes, but Rickard had no intention of allowing that pattern to continue.

A change was coming to Westeros, and Rickard was front and centre. He was going to ensure that the Stark’s came out of this war on top. He would make sure to grab as many oppurtunities as he could while here.

As a boy, his favourite stories had involved Theon ‘The Hungry Wolf’ Stark. The Hungry Wolf was a hard and brutal man that had beaten back invasions by the Ironborn and Andals, before taking his armies south and sacking it for all it was worth. Not done yet, he had then travelled to Andalos, the homelands of the Andals and sacked it too. He was the embodiment of everything Rickard hoped to be to the Targaryen dynasty. Brutal, harsh and utterly unforgiving, Theon had warned the world of the wrath of Kingdom of Winter.

When Rickard was dead he wanted people to remember him as the man that had broken the Targaryens, much as people remembered Theon for breaking the Andals.

Rickard wanted to drag down the last gasps of a dead empire that should have died when the fourteen flames exploded during The Doom. He wanted to tear the Targaryen’s asunder and behind him lay the key to doing so.

Rheagar Targaryen had been dressed in his full plate armour, which had been repaired especially for this occasion. The black armour drank in the shadows while it’s encrusted rubies glittered in the light of the rising son.

He was still bound and followed by the four men who had become his full time carers. His guards were all dressed for war, in full plate armour with heavy fur coats to protect them from the bitter bite of the Northern wind that had constantly been blowing over the last few days.

Rickard switched his gaze to the black knife that hung from his belt. It had been given to him by the Crannogman who was to oversee the ceremony, along with the instructions for what he had to do.

He breathed deeply and turned his gaze back to the city of King’s Landing. Soon his debts to Aerys Targaryen would be repaid and the Targaryen dynasty that had taken so much from him would be laid low.

He switched his gaze to the South West where he could see the column of dust that marked the position of Tywin Lannister’s forces. They were almost here. It was time to begin.

 

**Tywin III:**

His host was marching in disciplined columns down the Gold Road and towards the Golden Gate. It was to be a simple conquest, a city that was waiting for a host of northern barbarians to attack the city. Tywin would be received as a saviour, the gates thrown open in relief.

It would be then, once his troops were within the walls, that he would blow his horns and the sack of the city that the Targaryen’s had ruled since they first landed in Westeros would begin. Aerys and the Targaryen blood he was so proud of would be brought low and Tywin would have his heir back.

He would sack the city for the simple fact that it was Targaryen. Aerys had thought himself above them all because his ancestor had ridden a dragon and come from Valyria, the greatest empire to have ever existed. Unfortunately, no one had seemed to inform Aerys that the dragons that had made his family so feared were dead and the empire his ancestors had come from was a smattering of ruined islands in the middle of the Smoking Sea. So Aerys had continued to act with the impunity of a man who held all the power, when in reality he held none.

It was a dangerous position to be in, and now he would get his dues for acting the way he had. The power Aerys had thought he had was nothing more than an illusion, kept there for the sake of peace. Today Tywin would rip the illusion away and tear Aerys from the Iron Throne.

Today Tywin would finish the Targaryen line. Tomorrow would be the day for putting Cersei beside Robert on the Iron Throne.

As the sun rose Tywin noticed a column of dust to the North East, a tell-tale sign of a marching host. Last Tywin had heard though, the rebels were still camped upon the banks of the Trident. Perhaps this was where Randyll Tarly’s missing host was?

Tywin gestured for one of his outriders to come close. The man rode his horse over and Tywin gestured to the column of dust in the distance. “Go and find out what is the cause of that.”

The man nodded and spurred his horse away, racing across the fields to find out the cause of the disturbance. The next few minutes were spent in tense silence, wondering who else had enough men to muster a force near King’s Landing.

Tywin hoped it was Tarly rather than a rebel force. A rebel force could spell disaster for his carefully laid plans. While Tarly could be a thorn in his side, he doubted he had the man to stop him, particularly once he was within the city walls.

He turned in his saddle and called for Ser Gregor and Amory Lorch. Regardless of who it was he wanted to be prepared and ensure that the Targaryen’s would fall at the hands of Lannister men. The two men he called for came forward to meet him at the head of the column.

“What’s going on over there?” Ser Amory asked as he nodded to the column of dust.

“I’m not sure.” Tywin replied, “I’ve sent a man to investigate as we speak. Regardless, the second we enter the city take your men and be on your way. Do not stop for anything, get to your target and complete your mission as soon as possible.”

The two men nodded, both understanding the added risk of their mission and the need for speed. They spurred their horses away to ready their men, while Tywin returned his gaze to the cloud of dust on the horizon.

A few minutes later his outrider reappeared, racing across the fields to his north east with haste. The man pulled up in front of Tywin, his horse panting heavily suggesting it had been driven hard to get here.

“Who is it?” Tywin asked.

“It’s the Starks my lord.”

“The Starks?” Tywin exclaimed.

“Did you see any of the Starks themselves?”

“I saw both Rickard and Eddard Stark.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

This was not good. Rickard Stark did not strike Tywin as the sort of man to just sit back and allow other’s to fight his fights for him. This was the man that had Aerys had tried to brun alive, the man that had lost his son’s life because of Aerys’ madness. He had to beat him to the city. “How far away are they from the city?” Tywin asked.

“Their already there my lord. Their forming their troops into battle formations.”

Gods, Tywin thought, they’ve already beaten us. “How many men did they have?”

“At a guess…maybe 40,000 cavalry.”

“40,000 cavalry?!” Tywin exclaimed. “Where did they get all the horses?”

“I don’t know my lord. But that’s not all.”

“What else is there?”

“They have Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Tywin felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. This was insane. The Stark’s had Rhaegar Targaryen with them. “What was Rhaegar Targaryen doing?”

“He was on a horse in plate armour.”

It made no sense. Rickard Stark had lost a son and daughter because of Rhaegar Targaryen’s actions. It was not feasible for him to suddenly change sides in the war and support Rhaegar Targaryen over Robert Baratheon. Unless…Rhaegar had promised to make Lyanna his queen in exchange for Rickard’s support. It still made no sense though. “Did you notice anything else about him?” Tywin asked the outrider.

“He was surrounded by a lot of men. I’m not sure whether they were to protect him, or ensure he didn’t run away. It looked like his hands were bound, but I’m not sure.”

Suddendly it all made sense. Rickard Stark had managed to capture Rhaegar Targaryen alive and planned to make a spectacle of his death for the citizens of King’s Landing. How he planned to do this Tywin had no idea, and to be frank he didn’t care. If he wanted to make a show of Rhaegar’s death, let him.

He would not however take the city that Tywin hungered after. He turned to the herald that rode at his side. “Double time the march. We must beat the Starks there!”

 

**The Watcher on The Wall:**

The men gathered before the Old Gate, just outside the range of the arrows of the city’s defenders. They were a strange lot, composed of the lords of the north. Their number ranged from the small men of the crannogs of the neck to the giant lords that lived in the shadow of The Wall. Clad in thick furs and plain grey plate they did not seem to fit in with image of lords that the citizens of King’s Landing were accustomed to seeing. They looked out of place, and would have no doubt looked more at home surrounded by falling snow and the weeping weirwoods of the North.

With them though was Rhaegar Targaryen and there was no mistaking his identity. He had been dressed in his armoured black plate that was encrusted with rubies, his helm left off so all could behold his silver hair and purple eyes. Next to him was a man that hadn’t been seen in the city since the day the King attempted to burn him alive, and the scars from that day still showed as fresh as ever. He was a truly terrible sight to behold.

The small crannogmen has formed a circle around Prince Rhaegar, who was being held up by one of the giant lords. They began to chant in a strange, guttural tongue that clashed on the ears of those standing on the walls.

The Burnt Lord strode into the midst of men and stood beside Rhaegar. He turned to the city walls and raised a strange black knife that glittered in the sunlight high in the air. “Aerys!” He cried, “A son for a son!”

With that he brought the knife down into Rhaegar’s chest and it smashed through his black plate armour and into his chest. Scarlet blood ran out of the hole in his armour and began to pour onto the ground. Rhaegar’s face contorted in agony and his scream of pain split the air.

The crannogmen’s chanting grew louder, and the sound of drumming began to join the crescendo.

The Burnt Lord stepped back from Prince Rhaegar’s body and pulled something out of the pouch that hung around his neck. He held it high in the air for a second before throwing it into the rapidly growing puddle of Rhaegar’s blood.

The Crannogmen’s chanting was reverberating through the very air and the drums continued to pound away while Rhaegar’s screams of agony still hung heavily in the air.

Then as suddenly as it had begun the drums stopped and Rhaegar’s screams fell away. The chanting continued but now it was little more than a whisper rather than the crescendo it had been.

As the watchers on the wall watched movement stirred from within the puddle of Rhaegar’s blood.  From the scarlet blood came strange white strands that wrapped themselves around Prince Rhaegar’s torso. The giant lord holding Prince Rhaegar sprung away, almost fearfully.

The chanting continued and the white strands continued to wrap themselves around Prince Rhaegar. The strands began to take shape around the prince, and the watchers realised a Weirwood tree was growing around the prince.

From the white strands spring small red buds that grew to reveal themselves as the blood coloured leaves of the Weirwood. The tree continued to grow, encasing the prince deeper and deeper within a web of its branches. It was stretching high, almost the size of an adult tree, at least four meters in height, and with a width to rival the oldest oaks in the Kingswood.

The only part of Rhaegar’s body that was still visible was his face, the rest having been swallowed by the rapidly growing tree.

The tree was leeching more blood, though there was so much that the watchers doubted it all came from Rhaegar. It dripped from the leaves, flowed from every crevice and poured from the nose on Rhaegar’s exposed face. It formed a puddle, nay a pool, around the base of the tree, red and thick, and with the breeze that blew the air was filled with the coppery scent of blood.

The chanting continued and the tree continued to grow. One watcher tore his gaze away from the spectacle and shifted his gaze to those of the watching northern lords. They looked just as horrified and transfixed as the watchers on the wall. Did they even know what their liege lord had planned? Did they understand what they had just done?

They had killed The Last Dragon, the last hope for house Targaryen.

One though did not look horrified, instead looking on with what the watcher supposed was grim satisfaction. It was hard to tell with the horrifying burns that covered his entire body though. The Burnt Lord truly was as horrifying as the stories had sold him. If anything the stories did not capture the true essence of the man in its entirety. The Burnt Lord looked like death, and the watcher did not doubt he would take the heads of any who stood in his way. The Burnt Lord had defied death, refusing to kneel before the mighty grip of Aerys’ wildfire, a grip of death that had claimed many men before him. They said The Burnt Lord’s eldest son had defied the grip of the chains and ropes that bound him, defied the grip of those who wished him dead. The watcher wondered what the other Starks were capable of, and decided if the two that had entered King’s Landing were anything to go by, he had no intention of meeting another.

In the field outside the city, the tree had stopped dripping blood and was in the final throes of its growth spurt. It stopped shooting upwards, standing at six meters tall, but it hadn’t finished it’s grim spectacle yet.

Rhaegar’s face, twisted in a scream of agony, was still exposed to the world. As the watchers watched, more white strands grew over his face, covering his fine features and Targaryen beauty.

The tree stopped moving altogether then, and the chanting of the crannogmen stopped. The very air and earth reverberated around them, and the watchers felt the wall shake.

In front of them, in the field in front of the gate, they gazed upon the Weirwood tree that the lords of the north had sung into existence. They beheld the white bark and blood red leaves in all its terrible glory. They beheld the screaming face of Rhaegar Targaryen, etched into the lines of the tree for all eternity, for all to see and fear.

And the Watchers on The Wall felt afraid, fearful of the wrath of those lords of the north that sat on their horses beside the tree.

As one, the lords of the north turned their backs on the city and trotted back to the disciplined lines of horsemen that sat far away, amassed and ready for an attack on the city walls.

They left behind the tree, a warning to all who would ever lay eyes on it to fear the wrath of the north, to fear the direwolf’s bite.

Rhaegar Targaryen’s screaming face acted as a silent sentinel, condemned to watch over the city of his ancestors for all eternity, even as his family lost the city and kingdom they had built and ruled for over 280 years.

The Watcher’s on the Wall trembled on the walls as the line of horsemen began to advance on the walls. If not even The Last Dragon could stand against these vengeful men from the lands of winter, what hope had mortal men?

The Stark’s has ruled the North for 8000 years as kings. They had bowed to dragon’s, but the dragons were gone and Rhaegar Targaryen was destined to a mockery of life as a tree. The entire Targaryen dynasty rested on the shoulders of a mad man who had caused this problem in the first place, a three year old boy that was hiding on Dragonstone and another infant who was not likely to survive the day.

The Targaryen cause was doomed.

There was no use fighting for a dynasty that could not fight for themselves. The watcher made a decision then and threw down his bow and shrugged off his sword, before turning and running into the city. Into the city to ditch his armour and the incriminating three headed dragon that sat on it, and hopefully to find somewhere that would allow him to survive the slaughter that was surely to come.

Behind him he heard the yells of his commanders as they tried to install order into their men. Men that had decided to follow his example if the sounds of falling steel and running feet were anything to go by. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the entire line of green boys and old men that were manning the wall melting away, fleeing from the monsters that had come down from the North riding on the Winds of Winter, blowing away all who stood in their way.

 

**Davos V:**

Davos guided his little boat up the blackwater rush and into the docks outside the Mud Gate. He slipped off the boat and into the fishmarkets. Beron had sworn that he had a contact in a house near here. Davos followed the directions Beron had given him and found himself outside of a house that seemed to be on the verge of falling over. He knocked on the door three times, as Beron had instructed, and after a moment it opened to reveal an old bearded man that was missing a few teeth.

“Who are you?” he asked as he squinted at Davos suspiciously.

“I come bearing greetings from an old friend.”

“Which one?”

“Captain Salty.”

The old man smiled toothlessly before gesturing for him to come in. “How is my old friend?”

“Good.” Davos replied as he stepped into the small abode.

“Come, come,” The man said as he shuffled into the back room. “The team assembled for you is downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Daovs asked as he followed the man.

“Yea.” The old man said as he opened a cupboard to reveal a false backing. It opened to reveal a steep and narrow staircase that led into the ground. The man shuffled to the side and gestured for him to step inside. “Just follow the steps down and they’ll be waiting for you.”

“Are you not coming?” Davos asked.

“Gods no,” The man laughed, “I can’t swing a sword as well as I once did and someone needs to watch the house.”

Davos nodded, before nervously descending down the stairs. The stairs twisted a few times but otherwise continued straight down. Davos saw torchlight in the distance and emerged from the staircase into a large, well-furnished room. In the centre of the room was a large table with seats scattered around it. On the table was a hearty meal of roast beef and a leafy salad. Along one wall was a large fireplace with a chimney that went up into the roof, though to where Davos had no idea. Along the other wall was two doors, one of which was open, revealing what must have been the sleeping quarters of whoever lived here.

He assumed it was the men who sat seated aorudn the table, warriors all. They were dressed in strange steel armour that was inlaid with bronze, and helms with Weirwood masks rested at their sides. All of them were armed to the hilt, each carrying a sword, bow, a quiver of arrows and a spear. The most disconcerting thing to see was the large wolves that lay at their feet, like any common dog would.

There was fifteen of them in total and Davos had no doubt that these men were killers. They turned to him as he entered the room, their hands drifting to their swords. “Who are you?” One of them asked, a ginormous man with hands the size of hams. In addition to his previous armaments this man also had a giant Warhammer strapped to his back.

“I come from Captain Salty.” Davos replied nervously, hoping Beron hadn’t chosen this moment to pull a joke on him. The men relaxed at his decleration and their hands drifted away from their swords.

“You’re the smuggler?” One asked.

“Aye.” Davos replied.

“Good.” The large man said as he extended a hand in greeting. “My name is Cregan.”

“Davos.” Davos replied as he reached for the man’s hand and shook it firmly.

“What has Beron told you so far?”

“I’m rescuing some friends of yours.”

Cregan grimaced. “That is the essence of it, but it’s gotten a little more complicated than that in the last few hours.”

“What do you mean?” Davos asked.

“Tywin Lannister has finally decided to enter the war. His host is marching on the city now and will be here very soon. He has given orders to his men to kill our friends.”

From the way that Cregan said friends, Davos doubted they truly were. “Who are we rescuing?” Davos asked.

“A few people. One of Brandon Stark’s party is still alive in the Black Cells. His name is Ethan Glover. He will be the easiest to get out.” Cregan smiled grimly then. “Our next orders are to capture Elia Martell and her children alive and get them out of the city.”

Davos swallowed. He wished Beron had told him this. “As in Princess Elia Martell?” Davos asked weakly. “The one who married Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“That exact one.” Cregan confirmed. Inwardly Davos cursed Beron Saltstark’s name.

 

**Eddard XIV**

The line of horsemen thundered towards the Old Gate, swords drawn in preparation for the coming fight that would occur within the city walls. Upon the battlements, the defenders courage seemed to have deserted them, as many were throwing down their arms and fleeing off the walls and into the city to hide.

Where were the Weirwood Warriors? Ned thought as they drew closer and closer to the gates. They had been told to open the gates. As if in answer the gates begin to creak open and the glint of bronze flashed from the top of the gate. Fighting began to break out on the gate and Ned saw many a bod wearing the three headed dragon fall off the walls, lifeless.

The gates were wide open now, revealing the inside of the city and the prize which two armies sought. Ned wondered if Tywin Lannister’s forces had managed to enter the city yet. Next to him rode his father, the black knife that had killed Rhaegar hanging from his belt.

Ned didn’t know what to think of what his father had done. He hadn’t been there when he had planned it and had no clue of his father’s intentions until Rhaegar had been dragged into a circle of Crannogmen earlier this morning.

The show had at first made him feel sick to his stomach. Then the weirwood had grown from the blood and Ned’s horror had shifted to awe. He had seen the gods exert their will upon the earth in front of him and it scared him a little bit. Now Ned had no clue what to think of it.

The gates filled his vision and Ned pushed the thoughts from his mind. It would do no good to be distracted now, that could only lead to the death. His forces thundered through the gate and into the city proper, Ned leading them. Immediately the lords that had been given tasks began leading their men to rush off to do so. Ned watched Lord Bolton lead his men to the west to stop Tywin Lannister, while GreatJon Umber led his party to the south to secure the guildhall of the alchemists. The rest of his men secured the gatehouse and put down the paltry resistance.

The Weirwood Warriors were nowhere to be seen, having already melted away to carry out the resto of their duties. No, Ned corrected as he spotted one riding his way through the throng of men towards them. How Rodrick Walton had gotten his White Hart into the city, Ned would never know, but it was here now with Rodrick perched upon its back like one of the men from legends come to life.

“Lord Stark.” Rodrick greeted as his hart pulled alongside Lord Rickard’s own mount.

“Lord Commander.” Lord Rickard replied as he surveyed the mass of men marching into the city. He turned away from the gate and shifted his gaze to the west, where Tywin Lannister’s forces lay. “Where is Tywin Lannister?” Lord Rickard asked.

“He is approaching the gate now. They have opened it for him.”

Lord Rickard turned his gaze to the structure that sat overlooking it all, the Red Keep, where Aerys sat upon his throne. He turned to Ned and nodded towards the castle. “Shall we go?” He asked.

Ned nodded and spurred his horse forward towards the Red Keep where his family’s vengeance lay.

 

**Tywin IV:**

The god damned Stark’s had beaten him to the city. Someone had opened the bloody gate for them and they had gotten in unhindered. Tywin would not roll over and die though, no. Aerys would still die at a Lannister’s hands and Elia Martell would spend tomorrow evening rotting in a casket.

Thank the gods the fools on the gates had opened the gates for him. It made it so much easier and quicker. His men had been pushed hard for the last hour in an attempt to reach the city. They were marching through the Gold Gate now, the sound of their marching feet filling the air. From the other side of the city came the yells of fighting men, and Tywin hoped the paltry defence would be able to delay Rickard Stark long enough.

He looked for Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch and saw them in the distance, riding hard for the Red Keep. As he had instructed they had not stopped for anything and had been one of the first through the gates.

His host was now through the gates and he nodded to the herald beside him. He blew the horn to signal the attack and his men’s disciplined formations melted away. They attacked the Targaryen guards with reckless abandon, while more surged deeper into the city. Others headed into the nearby houses and shops and began the sack. The screams of the woman and men whose homes were getting invaded began to fill the air, when another sound reached Tywin’s ears.

The drumming of hooves on cobblestones reverberated around them and Tywin searched for the source of the noise. He hadn’t brought that many cavalry with him, only a few thousand and most of them were still sitting in the square.

Suddenly the streets to the East were filled with Lannister soldiers, soldiers who only minutes before had gone running that way to sack the houses and shops. They were yelling and screaming and more than one was carrying a cut that was bleeding.

There was a brief lull as the last of the Lannister soldiers fled from the streets in the east and then the streets re-filled with hundreds of horseman driving his forcesback towards the gate. They flew the banners of the running direwolf alongside that of the flayed man and Tywin knew who Rickard had sent to stop him.

He saw the man now, at the front of his line, his sword hacking down at a soldier who was attempting to rape a woman in front of her house. The man’s pale lifeless eyes raised from the corpse of Tywin Lannister’s soldier and met Tywin’s own steely gaze.

Roose Bolton tipped his head in deference before turning to his men and yelling some orders at them. They rushed to obey, while Roose Bolton gathered some men and rode for Tywin’s position.

“Lord Lannister.” Lord Bolton greeted as he pulled his horse to a stop in front of him.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t strike your head from your shoulders right now!” Tywin snapped.

Roose Bolton smirked at him. “What would you strike my head from my shoulders for?”

“You just killed my man!”

Roose Bolton nodded. “It’s not my fault you lost control of your army.”

“What?” Tywin asked incredulously.

“It’s not my fault that you lost control of your army.” Roose repeated stubbornly.

“I did not!” Tywin exclaimed in indignation.

“Well then I suggest you start running Lord Tywin.”

“Excuse me?” Tywin asked.

“Start running. Rickard Stark is not the man you want to cross today.”

“And why not?” Tywin insisted.

Roose Bolton just regarded him coldly before leaning in close. “Rickard Stark has already won the city Lord Lannister. Get your troops back into formation now and you’ll still have the chance to save face when he sits Robert’s arse on the iron throne. The city is Rickard Stark’s. He is one of the most brutal men I have ever seen. Do not get in his way by trying to steal the city that he sees as his to take.”

Tywin thought for a minute and then decided to change tactics. “Help me Lord Bolton and I will see you rewarded. I have lost control of my army and need assistance reorganising them.”

Roose Bolton nodded smugly and Tywin gritted his teeth.

At least Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch had gotten away.

 

**Elia I:**

The sounds of fighting within the city was drifting up to Elia’s place where she sat by the window. At her feet sat Rhaenys, playing with her black kitten that she had named Balerion. Nestled in her arms was her little baby Aegon, his sweet smile lifting Elia’s downtrodden spirits.

She glanced out her window, at the view overlooking the city and watched the progress of the advancing hosts. It seemed Rickard Stark’s host was winning the race as Tywin Lannister’s men had been relegated to the parts of the city surrounding the Gold Gate.

Truth be told she didn’t care anymore. When the conflict had first broken out Elia had been so angry at Rhaegar for shaming her by running away with the Stark girl, but now she just didn’t care anymore.

Then she had gone through the stage where she wanted to put little Aegon on the throne, until she realised she wanted her children as far away from the twisted thing as possible.  That accursed throne corrupted everyone it touched and Elia wished her mother had not been as obsessed with it as she was.

She wished her mother had allowed her to marry Arthur Dayne, he had been sweet and he would have been faithful to her. Their children would have been beautiful and kind and Elia would have been content spending the rest of her life in his arms in a small keep on the shores of the summer sea.

But that was not the deal that life had dealt her. She had married the gallant prince, but the prince wasn’t gallant and the king was more malevolent than benevolent. She turned to the children’s nursemaid who was quivering at every loud noise.

“Go home.” She said gently. “Go see your family, make sure their safe.”

The girl nodded and all but fled from the room, having no intention of staying to make sure her princess and charges were safe. Elia couldn’t blame her. If she had been in the same positon she thought she would have fled to.

She wished she could flee even now but Aerys had refused to let her go with the children, afraid that her brother’s armies would betray him. The crazy old fool, she thought bitterly. There was a ship in the docks that was kept ready to flee at a moment’s notice but with each passing moment the chance to get to the ship alive shrunk.

She turned back to the window and her heart almost stopped in her chest as a man clad in dark leathers climbed through. He reached out and grabbed her, covering her mouth.

“Don’t scream.” He hissed in a strong northern burr. “I’m not here to harm you.”

Elia nodded fearfully, wondering what this northerner was doing. “I’m about to let you go. If you scream or yell you’re going to die.”

Elia nodded again and the man slowly pulled his hand off her mouth and let her go. She scrambled away from him and retreated to the corner. She pulled Aegon and Rhaenys close.

“What do you want?” She asked.

“I’m here to help.” He replied. “There are certain men who want you dead. I’ m here to ensure you survive.”

“Why are you helping me?” She asked suspiciously.

“My Lord is close friends with a friend of yours. He promised to keep you safe.”

Elia thought for a second. “You mean Ned Stark?” She asked.

The man nodded before raising his finger to his lips and hiding behind the door. Outside the heard of rushing feet could be heard. Elia jumped fearfully. She watched the man as the footsteps faded. She wondered if she could trust him. He said he came from Ned Stark who Ashara said she was going to marry. But the last she had heard of Ned Stark was that he had married Catelyn Tully, breaking the promise to Ashara.

Maybe he meant to make it up to Ashara by rescuing her from the clutches of the men who wanted her dead. She wondered who those men could be, though she assumed it was Rickard Stark. That was Ashara had told her, something about wanting to kill everyone who was present on the day he was burned. She wouldn’t be surprised if Tywin Lannister wanted her dead too. He had always been upset that Aerys had refused the match between Rhaegar and his daughter.

The footsteps faded away and the man moved away from the door. He ruhed over to the wall and begin fiddling around with it, looking for something. He found what he was looking for with a triumphant grin and pushed on the stone. To Elia’s great surprise the wall opened like a door to reveal a dark passage.

More men rushed out of the tunnel, though these were dressed differently. They wore strange bronze and steel armour and were all heavily armed. There was four of them.

Behind them came a sight that made her heart break. It was three blood stained sheets, containing what looked suspiciously like bodies. “What are you doing?” She asked.

“Go and stand there!” One of the men commanded and Elia followed his instructions to stand in clear view of the door. She held Rhaenys and Aegon in her arms. Two of the men put down their loads and returned to the hallway, while the other two hid behind the door, their swords drawn.

With a shock she realised their blades were made from the same strange ethereal material that Arthur’s _Dawn_ was made of. One of the men hiding behind the door turned to her.

“When the door opens, one of the men who wants to kill you will enter. Run for the passage and don’t stop. Do you understand?””

Elia nodded, her heart thundering in her chest.

For the next few minutes she stood there, praying to whatever gods would listen to protect her and her children. Outside the sounds of running feet and yells filled the air. The door burst open and Elia turned to run…

 

**Eddard XV:**

Eddard rode hard beside his father, Rodrick on his father’s other side and some of their most loyal men following him. They thundered through the streets of King’s Landing, towards the Red Keep. He had no clue if Tywin Lannister’s troops had been stopped, but he had yet to see some.

They came across a few Targaryen guards but most of them turned and ran rather than fought. The few that did stand to fight often died by one of Rodrick Walton’s arrows. The man was a one man army, his bow singing a deadly song that killed any who tried to stop them.

Ned hadn’t even had to draw _Snowfall_ yet. It still hung at his side, unblooded as of yet. He glanced up at the walls of the Red Keep and wondered if the Weirwood Warriors had taken it yet. As of yetm he could tell nothing, he saw no flashes of bronze in the early morning light to indicate otherwise.

The citizens of King’s Landing had stayed indoors on this day, so there was no one else impeding their progress as they ascended Aegon’s hill, drawing ever closer to the Red Keep.

They reached the summit and Ned was greeted by the sight of two Targaryen guards almost hacked in half. Ned had seen the Weirwood Warriors fight at the battle of God’s Eye, an event that still haunted his nightmares, and he knew they would never be this…messy. That could only mean one thing…Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch had beaten them here.

Ned and his father pushed on into the Red Keep, ignoring the bodies of the fallen. Ned saw a young girl fleeing and snatched her arm as she tried to run away. “The Princess’s chambers!” he roared in his desperation, “Where are they?”

The girl, most probably terrified beyond her wits, just raised a trembling finger and pointed to a nearby doorway.

“Up there?” Ned asked. “Is that where she is?”

The girl nodded and Ned let her go, heading for the doorway. She rushed away as far away as her legs could carry her and Ned rushed off as fast as he could go. Behind him his father and Rodrick sought out the Great Hall where their wargs had reported Aerys was spending his last hours, brooding as rebels took his city.

Ned thundered through the tower door and up the steps, the remaining soldiers following him. They reached the landing and Ned saw Amory Lorch smashing down a door. The man hadn’t relaied Ned was present and pushed his head into the room. He backed out and moved to the next door, while Gregor Clegane emerged from another doorway shaking his great head. “She’s not in here.” He rumbled.

Amory moved to the final door and pushed it open and Ned heard a woman scream. Amory dashed into the room and Ned rushed forward to engage Gregor Clegane. “Clegane!” He roared as he made his presence known. The Mountain who Rides turned away from the doorway and turned to engage Ned and his men.

Amory had entered the room and the door had shut behind him, blocking Ned seeing what was going on inside. He could only hope and pray the Weirwood Warriors and Beron Saltstark had done as asked.

Ser Gregor swung his massive sword, but in the cramped corridor it was a largely ineffective weapon. It got caught on a wall scone and Ned and his men used it to their advantage, with one of Ned’s men managing to hamstring The Mountain. The Mountain fell to the floor with a cry of rage and Ned dashed past him and into the room. He was immedinalt greeted by the sight of a starsteel blade held at his throat and he almost collapsed from relief.

“Thank the gods…” He murmured as the sword was pulled away and Ned embraced Cregan in a crushing hug.

He looked about the room and spotted Amory’s corpse lying on the floor. “Where is she?” He asked as he looked down the tunnel for her.

“Here.” A voice said and Elia Martell walked from the tunnel, her children clutched in her arms. She was still as beautiful as she had been at the tourney of Harrenhall Ned reflected, though she was a fair bit thinner.

 “You need to go.” Ned said. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Elia nodded and Cregan and his men turned and rushed out of the room, the stone door clicking shut behind them. He grabbed his blade and thrust it through Amory Lorch, wetting the blade, before turning and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

He looked down the corridor to see Gregor Clegane still on the floor, held at the point of multiple swords. He gestured for two of his men to guard the door before advancing down the corridor and stopping next to Gregor Clegane’s head. He wrenched the Mountain’s helmet off and slammed down the pommel of his sword on his head. It took three blows before he was properly concussed.

“Go and get some more men!” he told one men, “Get this scum out of here and lock him in the Black Cells.”

 

**Davos VI:**

Davos followed the men into the tunnels beneath King’s Landing, tunnels he did not know even existed. The tunnel had begun in the house in the fishmarkets and ran all over the city. Davos had seen more offshoots than he cared to count, and wondered if the men in front of him knew where they going.

They had entered a particularly dark tunnel before Davos found himself in a small round chamber, which lay at the bottom of a shaft where a dozen tunnels met. Davos looked down and noticed a scuffed mosaic of the three headed dragon of house Targaryen, done in tiles of black and red. To one side of the small chamber, there was an ornate iron brazier fashioned in the shape of a dragons head.

“Well this is where we part.” Cregan said as he shook Davos’s hand once more. “I’ll see you back here in a little while.”

Davos nodded and the group of men split. Three of them went with Cregan, while the other four took another passage and gestured for Davos to follow. Davos followed them and soon got lost in the twisting turning mazes that seemed to have no end.

They eventually stopped before a plain stone slab and Davos groaned inwardly. “Did we get lost?” he asked.

“No.” The man at the front said. Then he reached up and tapped something near the right hand corner of the stone slab. To Davos’ amazement the stone slub around to reveal a doorway into a place Davos had only heard of.

“This is the Black Cells!” he whispered. The men nodded grimly and stepped forward into the corridor, past the empty cells. Davos followed and ahead noticed a light in the distance. The men stuck to the shadows, their strange pale swords drawn, and glittering in the dim light. They slipped up the corridor like wraiths and fell upon the guards that were stationed there. They fought like demons and within seconds the four of them had managed to kill the ten guards that guarded the cell. Another four men emerged from within the cell, their swords drawn, but they fell as quick as the other guards had.

Davos and the men rushed inside to see a young boy of 15 years chained hand and foot to the wall. His face was swollen, and he sported many cuts and bruises.

“Go away…” he murmured, “I don’t know anything. I was just his squire.”

“Ethan?” One of the men asked.

The boy looked up and Davos’ heart almost broke within his chest. His eyes were so defeated, so broken that Davos doubted this boy had the spirit within him to live.

“Who are you?” He slurred through his most probably broken jawbone.

“The gates of Mount Starpoint are open.”

The words meant nothing to Davos, but they clearly meant something to the boy who looked at the men with in a new light. “The gates are opened?” He asked incredulously.

“Aye.”

The boy began laughing then, and it filled the cell and corridor echoing around them. “Brandon shall be avenged!” he crowed. “Brandon shall be avenged!”

The men glanced at each other and stepped forward, before swinging their blades at the chains that bound him. The chains sparked before snapping and falling away. The men grasped the boy in their amrs and dragged him from the cell, while he continued to laugh like a maniac.

They descended back down the way they had come, and when they got to the chamber with the dragon mosaic Davos found Cregan waiting for them along with a young Dornish woman and her two young children.

“Hello.” Davos greeted as he nodded at her. “I’m Davos.”

She smiled at him sweetly. “Hello Davos.” She said. “I’m Elia.”

Then Davos realised who was speaking to and his heart stopped in his chest. “P-p-princess!” He stammered before dropping to one knee.

Elia Martell smiled down at him. “Not for much longer good ser.”

“I’m no ser.” Davos said as he got back to his feet. “Just a smuggler.”

“Oh.” Elia replied.

“Mama!” The little girl at the Princess’s feet called, “What’s a smuggler?”

Elia smiled down at the little girl. “A very good sailor.”

The little girl skipped over to Daovs and clutched his hand in her small one. “Will you be my friend?” She asked, “I’ve never had a smuggler for a friend!”

Davos smiled down at her. “Of course I will.” He replied. “I’ve never had a princess for a friend before.”

The little girl smiled at him sweetly and Davos felt an odd urge of affection for the fallen princess.

“We need to go.” Cregan said as he led the way down the corridor that led back to the house in the fishmarkets.

The return seemed to be quicker than the journey in for Davos and they found themselves at the fishmarket’s relatively quickly. They stopped very briefly to change into some more suitable clothes for sneaking through the poor districts of town, before ascending to the surface.

“This is where we depart Davos.” Cregan said as he shook his hand. “Maybe I’ll see you back in the North.”

Davos nodded and shook his hand, before turning to the princess. “It’s best we get going now.” He said and the princess nodded, her Dornish skin and thick black tresses hidden by the ragged cloak that covered her. They crept their way through the fish markets and made it to Davos’s little boat in good time. Thankfully, due to the battle going on within the city, the streets had been largely deserted so they had been seen by few.

As they pulled out of the docks, Elia gestured to another boat pulling out from the docks, a big three masted war galley flying the standards of house Targaryen. “That boat was supposed to take me and my family to Dragonstone.” She said with a hint of bitterness.

Davos glanced at it, and then out to the deeper water where he knew Beron Saltstark and his fleet lurked. “Just as well you didn’t then.” Davos replied.

“Why’s that Davos?” She asked and Davos gestured out to the deep water.

“Beron Saltstark has specific orders to sink that ship.”

“Who is Beron Saltstark?” The princess asked and Davos stared at her incredulously.

“You’ve never heard of Beron Saltstark?” He exclaimed.

“No.” She replied, “Should I?”

“Most probably not.” Davos replied with a grin. “I only know him because he spent a lot of time chasing me.”

“Ah.” The Princess said as she smirked at him knowingly.

“Aye.” Davos replied. “He was a bloody pain in my arse.”

“What’s an arse?” Rhaenys asked as she stirred in Elia’s grip.

“Damn…” Davos muttered as the Princess giggled at him.

 

**Jamie V**

Jamie stood beside the throne as the rebels entered the city. Aerys had descended into a fit of madness, jumping at every shadow and scaring at every sound. He was constantly having reports on the rebel’s progress brought to him.

It seemed that two rival armies had reached the city at the same time. One army was commanded by his father, the other by Rickard Stark. Rickard Stark’s forces had manged to enter first, but not before sacrificing Rhaegar Targaryen to the Weirwood tree that had miraculously sprung up outside the Old Gate.

Aerys had ordered the gates opened for his father and Tywin Lannister’s forces had entered the city, upon which time they turned their cloaks and in a stunning display began to sack the city. In an even further stunning display Roose Bolton had led a force of Northern men to attack Tywin Lannister and stop him from sacking the city, while other northern lords secured other points of interest.

Somehow after Roose Bolton attacked Tywin had reordered his men, and it had begun a much more orderly invasion of the city, clearing it of Targaryen soldiers street by street. Not that they would have much competition. Most of the men had left with Rhaegar to confront Rickard Stark on the Trident. Very few of those men had returned, and those who did came sporting tales of an army so numerous it was like fighting the ocean. No one had seemed to know what had happened to Rhaegar but as this morning’s event had proven, the Stark’s had managed to capture him alive.

Before the throne now was the Hand of the King, Wisdom Rossart.

“Light the wildfire caches.” Aerys ordered the man, and the man bowed low and left.

“Ser Jamie.” Aerys called and Jamie took his place on bended knee before the Iron Throne.

“My King.” Jamie said.

“Bring me the head of your father.” Aerys commanded and Jamie got to his feet before turning and rushing down the great hall, though wether he was going to take his father’s head or kill Wisdom Rossart he did not know. He left the hall and stopped almost immediately.

What was he meant to do Jamie wondered. Did he honour his oaths to his king or his oaths as a knight? What would Arthur Dayne do? Jamie asked himself, but for the life of him he could not figure it out.

He cursed The White Eye for failing to kill the king and allowing him to blow the city up. He cursed his father for putting him in this position. He cursed Rhaegar for not deposing Aerys earlier. He cursed them all, and all the oaths they wanted him to stand by.

He would not stand by as hundreds of thousands of innocent people were killed by the commands of a mad man and his lackeys.

Jamie drew his white sword and rushed down the corridor after Wisdom Rossart.

He caught up with the elderly man just before he had reached the exit into the courtyard.

“Ser Jamie!” The man exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

Wordlessly Jamie grabbed the man by the front of his tunic and ran him through with his blade. The man stiffened in his grip, before falling off his sword and collapsing to the ground, his life blood pouring out of him.

With a heavy heart, Jamie turned around and made his way back to the hall. When he opened the door, his heart almost stopped in relief. The rafters were filled with all sorts of birds, eagles, ravens, sparrows, and one very distinctive White Raven. At the foot of the stairs to the Iron Throne, sat a snake, watching the man who was perched upon it. It turned its head as the doors opened and regarded Jamie with its black eyes. It hissed at him before turning and slithering away.

“No!” Jamie cried. “What are you doing? Kill him!” He cried as he gestured to the king on his throne. The snake just hissed at him once more before slithering away and disappearing into the shadows.

“Ser Jamie!” Aerys cried as he beheld the blood on his white sword. “Whose blood is that?”

Up in the rafters the birds began to laugh, and above it all Jamie could hear the cries of that damned White Raven, cackling at the situation Jamie was in.

“Wisdom Rossart’s” Jamie replied as he turned his gaze to the king.

The King’s eyes widened in realisation and he get to his feet and rushed down the stairs. Jamie wondered if the King planned to attack him, but to his alas, the King instead turned and went to flee. Jamie sprung after him and caught a hold of his long white hair.

With tears in his eyes, he stabbed the king he had sworn to protect through the heart. Crying in agony, Ser Jamie, a knight of the kingsguard removed his white sword from the chest of his king. The King slumped to his knees, his blood spilling onto the red floor, eerily similar to the way that Brandon Stark’s blood had spilled when he had been dragged before the court on the first day he had entered the city.

The King fell to the floor, his eyes searching for Jamie.

“Traitor…” he murmured, “Like your fath…” The King never finished his sentence, instead passing out from the lack of blood. His eyes became glassy as his wheezing chest stopped rising.

The King was dead.

Jamie felt weak suddenly and decided he needed to take a seat. Unfortunately there was only one seat in the entire room, the twisted mess that was called the Iron Throne.

He staggered over to the steps leading up to its dais when the sound of falling metal filled the air. Jamie spun around his sword still dripping the blood of his king.

From the shadows at the back of the hall, two figures emerged and one of them began to slowly clap. His claps echoed in the emptiness of the Great Hall, filling Jamie’s head with a mocking applause of what he had just done.

“Behold!” The Burnt Lord yelled as he emerged into the light. “The truest knight of the kingsguard!”

Jamie glared at the man who had caused all this trouble. He was dressed in plain dark grey plate, but his helm had been left off, and his gauntlets were missing exposing the horrible burn scars that covered him. Over his shoulder sat his houses Valyrian steel Greatsword, _Ice_ , a chunk of metal that would be deadly in the hands of even an adequate swordsman. Next to him strode a man dressed in strage steel and bronze plate, with a helm of Weirwood. At his side rested a sword, on his back sat a bow and in his hands sat a spear. Jamie’s sword itched in his arm. “You killed Rhaegar” he accused Rickard Stark.

“Aye.” Rickard Stark replied bluntly. “And you killed Aerys.”

Jamie’s sword arm quavered and he sat down upon the dais. “Aye.” He replied. “I did.”

“Perhaps your finest act.” Rickard said and Jamie glared at him.

“Do not mock me.” He hissed at The Burnt Lord.

“I’m not.” Ricard replied. “I see you’ve learnt the lesson that all northern boys learn.”

“And what’s that?” Jamie challenged.

“The oaths of knighthood mean nothing. There is a reason there are no knights in the North.”

Jamie turned his gaze away but switched it back when he heard a hissing. The snake that had confronted Aerys earlier slithered from the shadows to meet Rickard Stark. It climbed up The Burnt Lord’s leg before draping itself over his shoulders.

“You!” Jamie realised with a start. “You’re the one with the snake! Why didn’t you kill him?”

“I wanted to see what you would do.”

“You let me break my oaths.”

“I let you fulfil your oaths. I thought knights protected the innocent. How is protecting the innocent allowing them to burn in wildfire?”

Jamie’s jaw dropped open. “You knew?” He asked “You knew and still you came? Why?”

“Even if you had chosen to let Wisdom Rossart go, he would not have survived his visit to the first cache. My men got into the city a few days ago and secured all the sites.”

Jamie felt heartbroken. All the arguing with himself had been for nothing. No one was ever in any danger. He couldn’t believe it. He had killed the king for nothing. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Who are you?” Jamie asked as he glanced at the other man.

“Rodrick.” The man replied simply and Jamie nodded.

Rickard Stark ascended to where Jamie sat upon the floor and lowered himself to the floor beside him.

“Kid,” He began, “What you did today that took more courage and honour than the rest of every knight who ever lived had.”

“I killed an old man.” Jamie said.

“You killed a mad man who had doomed the realm to war, and this city to death. You did a good thing.”

“I did not.” Jamie replied.

“You did.” Rickard Stark insisted. “Do not let anyone tell you are anything other than honourable. You are a kingslayer yes, but the most honourable kingslayer to have lived.”

“I am not.” Jamie insisted.

“I’ll admit.” Rickard said as he placed his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “When I entered the city today I had every intention of killing you.”

“You did?” Jamie asked

“Yes.” Rickard replied. “You had stood by and watched as my son was killed and I was burnt alive. What sort of honourable man does that? What knightly oaths tell a man to stand by and watch as another is burned alive. What you did today proved you have more honour than any of the other Kingsguard alive. Ser Gerold Hightower guarded the king as he descended into madness. Ser Barristan stood by and watched as he tore the realm apart. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell are rumoured to have helped Rhaegar kidnap a sixteen year old girl. Where is there honour?”

Jamie listened in sullen silence.

“You had honour enough though, honour that made you turn from a boy that stood by and watched to a man that stepped up and stopped the madness of an utterly abhorrent king. You are the youngest of the Kingsguard, but you are more honourable than the rest of them combined I say. Yes you killed a king, but you did it for honourable reasons. Wear what you have done with pride Ser Jamie. Today you made the hardest choice of all and chose right.”

With that Rickard Stark got to his feet and pulled Jamie up alongside him. “Now come,” Rickard said, “Soon these halls will be filled with the victorious lords. You don’t want to be remembered as the kingsguard who snivelled before them. Do not let them judge you for what you have done. You are above them. By what right do the sheep judge the lion?”

Jamie smiled then, smiled at the memories that phrase instilled. Days when he was still in Casterly Rock with Tyrion and Cersei and his father, before the Mad King had dragged him away to hell, before the madness had consumed the realm.

Jamie squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. He had no reason to be ashamed. He had saved them all from death. By what right did they judge him? By what right did the sheep judge the lion?

And Jamie was the truest lion of them all.


	50. Tywin III: After The Sack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin has a poke. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Tywin settled into the stiff wooden chair that sat behind the desk in the offices of the Master of Coin. This was not where Tywin belonged or should have been. Tywin should have been sitting in the King’s solar, upon the plush leather armchair, but that had been taken by Rickard Stark. He should have been residing in the tower of the hand, but those apartments, and the offices that came with them had been taken by Eddard Stark. Everywhere Tywin looked all he could see was the running direwolf.

It hung from the walls of the Red Keep. It sat on the breastplates of the soldiers who manned the walls of the city and patrolled the streets.

Tywin’s own army had been forced to set up camp outside the city, while the Stark men had gotten to take over the local barracks and stables. It was an insult to the Lannister name to have the Lannister armies sitting in tents while the Stark soldiers lay in featherbeds.

The Stark army was numerous though, and Tywin had no idea where Rickard Stark had managed to get the men, let alone the horses. He hadn’t believed it at first when his outrider had told him the entire Stark army was composed of cavalry. Then he had seen it with his own eyes, and was amazed.

Tywin had to admit he had a grudging respect for the man they called The Burnt Lord. He had accomplished what Tywin had strived to do for years in a matter of months. Then he had scorned Tywin in the same way that Aerys had.

Tywin had requested to meet with him last night, but The Burnt Lord had refused and instead directed him to Roose Bolton. The message was clear. Rickard Stark had no interest in meeting with Tywin Lannister, nor anything the Lord of Casterly Rock had to say.

Tywin had moved on though, he had bigger fish to fry.

The door opened and in limped Gregor Clegane. The man they called the Mountain who Rides slumped into the chair across from Tywin with a gasp of relief.

“What happened?” Tywin asked.

“Stark.” Gregor spat shortly.

“Explain.” Tywin demanded.

“We got there first, but Ned Stark arrived not long after. Amory found the girl and went to kill her while I went to stop Stark. Amory got into her room and Stark got past me and followed him in. I was taken captive by Stark’s guards and thrown in the Black Cells once they had taken the city.”

“And what of the princess?” Tywin asked. “Did she die?”

“I don’t know.” Gregor replied.

“You don’t know!” Tywin exclaimed.

Gregor shrugged. “The door shut behind Amory. I couldn’t see.”

Tywin sighed. He had no way of knowing what had happened to the princess now. “I assume Amory is dead then?”

“I don’t know.” Gregor replied, “But he wasn’t put in the cells with me.”

Tywin clenched his jaw. This day was getting worse and worse. “Page!” He called, and the young boy that acted as his page dashed into the room. “Yes M’Lord?” The boy asked.

“Go and find Rickard Stark and ask him if he knows where Amory Lorch is.”

“At once M’Lord.”

The boy rushed out of the room to find Rickard Stark and Tywin turned back to Gregor. “I want you to take your men and go home. Get out of here before the Stark’s decide they want your head too.”

The great man nodded, before getting up and rushing away.

Tywin continued to sit at his desk while he waited for the return of his page. A few minutes later the boy returned and entered his room. “Well?” Tywin asked.

“He said he is dead and to stop annoying him.”

Tywin’s brow rose. “To stop annoying him?”

“Yes” The little boy replied. Tywin rose from his chair with such force that it was thrown backwards. “Get out!” He roared. The boy scrambled away and Tywin pitched his goblet of wine at the wall.

Rickard Stark thought he owned this city. Rickard Stark thought he would be able to do what he wanted just because he was the leader of this bloody rebellion. Tywin would show him. He stormed out of his chambers and down into the courtyard of the Red Keep where his personal guard awaited him. The captain of his guards stepped forward. “My Lord.” He greeted.

“Get word to our contacts within the city.” Tywin demanded. “I want to know everything that happened to Elia Martell. Question servants, commoners, highborn hostages, whoever we can get our hands on. I want to know if she is still alive and if not I want to know where her body is. I want to know absolutely everything she did in the last week. ”

The captain nodded and began relaying his instructions to his guards who rushed away to do his bidding. Tywin turned around and stormed back up to his offices. When he got there he found his son waiting for him.

Jamie Lannister rose from the seat he had taken to greet his father with a curt nod. He was still wearing that accursed white cloak that Aerys had given him. Tywin strode past him and put his chair back where it belonged and sitting in it.

“Sit.” Tywin commanded.

Jamie sat down before reaching over and pouring himself a goblet of wine.

“They say you killed the king.” Tywin began.

He noticed a hint of defiance enter his son’s eyes. “I did.” Jamie confirmed.

“Good.” Tywin replied. “I’m glad he died at the hands of a Lannister. At least we beat the Stark’s to something.”

Jamie shifted in his seat and took a long sip of his wine. “Yea.” Jamie replied noncommittedly.

“Now we can talk about reinstating you as my heir and getting rid of that white cloak.” Tywin continued. Jamie frowned at him.

“Tyrion is your heir.” Jamie said. “I’m of the Kingsguard. My oaths were for life.”

Tywin laughed at his son. “You broke your oaths when you killed Aerys.”

Jamie scowled at him. “I did nothing of the sort. I kept my oaths.”

“Really?” Tywin mocked, “Tell me how killing the king you had sworn to protect was keeping your oaths.”

“Rickard Stark said I did the right thing.” Jamie said in a small voice. “He said I had more honour than any of the kingsguard alive.”

Tywin scoffed. “Rickard Stark is an absolute idiot.”

Jamie smirked at him. “Rickard Stark is the absolute idiot whose troops hold this city. Rickard Stark is the absolute idiot that crushed Rhaegar on the Trident. Rickard Stark is the absolute idiot who survived Aerys madness. I would say Rickard Stark is a pretty extraordinary idiot.”

Tywin scowled at the cheek of his son. “He got lucky.”

Jamie laughed at him then. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Enough.” Tywin demanded. “Regardless you will become my heir.”

“I will not.” Jamie replied. “I am a kingsguard. I will continue to guard the king.”

“The king is dead you fool.”

“I will wait for Robert’s judgement then.”

“I will pressure him to make you my heir.”

“Even if he strips me of my White Cloak I will still refuse. Tyrion is your heir.”

“That stunted demon-monkey will never be my heir.”

Jamie glared at him. “That stunted demon-monkey is my brother.” Jamie eyes drifted away, unseeing. “You’ve already made me betray him once. I will not betray him again.”

Tywin scoffed. “I saved him from a whore.”

Jamie got to his feet. “I see this conversation is going nowhere.” He bowed low, so low it was almost mocking. “I will take my leave of you.”

Tywin glared at his son. “Get out then. Enjoy your life guarding the king.” He spat. “I will find myself worthy of Casterly Rock and the legacy of my family.”

Jamie laughed at him again. “Your legacy…”, he muttered before turning and walking out of the door.

It was hours later when the investigation he had sent his guards on yielded results. His captain came to him accompanied by a young girl of about seventeen.

“Tell Lord Tywin what you saw.” His captain commanded the girl and she nodded meekly.

“I saw the princess.” The girl stammered. “She was in the fishmarkets with an old man.”

“How do you know it was the princess?” Tywin asked.

“I work in the keep M’Lord. I normally live just down the hill, but with your armies coming my aunty reckoned it would be safer in the fishmarkets cause it was outside the city. I work in the kitchens and I seen her a few times. She was wearing old clothes and a ragged cloak but I seen her enough to know.”

“Did she have anyone with her apart from the old man?”

“Yea she had a little girl and she was carrying something else in her arms.”

Tywin nodded. This was good. There was still a chance to place himself at the forefront of this war, and show Robert his commitment to his regime.


	51. Eddard XIV: New friends, old foes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned has a meeting with a certain smuggler and princess. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Eddard Stark had left the city early that morning with only the small Crannogman Howland Reed for company. Howland had been Ned’s constant companion throughout the entirety of the war, following him wherever he had gone. Ned knew few people, if any, he trusted more. Howland had been there when the smiles died at Harrenhall, and had a devotion to house Stark that extended beyond his duties as a vassal. Which was why Ned had chosen Howland to accompany him on this day.

They had left King’s Landing via the Iron Gate, and headed up the coast for a few leagues, to an isolated cove. In the cove a ship was anchored, while a small camp had been set up on the beach. Even from this distance, Ned could recognise the telltale markings of _The Salty Wolf_ , the flagship of the Eastern fleet and the ship captained by Beron Saltstark.

Ned and Howland made their way down into the cove and approached the camp. They were greeted by Beron as soon as their horse’s hooves hit the sand. He had run over from his camp and threw his arms around Ned as soon as he had dismounted.

“Ned brother!” He exclaimed. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen such a sombre face.”

Ned cracked a small smile, but he noticed that Beron’s eyes did not dance as they once did. There was a sadness, a hardness that resided in them that made Ned wonder what had upset his old friend so. Beron was no stranger to conflict having fought pirates in the narrow sea and chasing smugglers all over The Bite.

“How have you been Beron?” Ned asked. “How was Storm’s End?”

Beron’s gaze darkened even further and a scowl flickered across his normally jovial features.

“Hard Ned.” Beron replied before swallowing thickly. Tears sprung into his eyes and his gaze drifted to the horizon. “I lost my brothers.” He said in a small voice. “One was on a ship sunk by the Redwyne fleet, while the other died after the falling off the smuggler’s ship. I’m my father’s last son now.”

“I’m so sorry.” Ned consoled, knowing exactly how Beron felt. Losing Brandon had been hard enough, and Beron had just lost both of his brothers. “If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.”

Beron nodded, and the three of them began to walk down to the camp.

“How was Stannis?” Ned asked and Beron’s grief stricken features twisted into an angry scowl that Ned didn’t know Beron had in him.

“He was a stiff prick. I wish we had of just let him die.”

Ned was surprised at the extent of Beron’s anger. “What happened?”

“At first he refused to allow the Northern soldiers into the castle, but he took our fish and grains. The smuggler, Davos, convinced him to take the soldiers, and then he cut off Davos’ fingers for his crimes as a smuggler.”

Ned baulked. He had always heard Robert say that Stannis was a hard and stern boy, but to hear of the results was quite confronting. “You did your duty well.” Ned said. “I will make sure Davos is also well rewarded.”

Beron nodded. “Make him the lord of a keep on the sea, preferably one within my own dominion. He has a good head on his shoulders, and deserves a large reward for what he has done.”

Ned nodded at Beron. “I’ll see what I can do. If I remember correctly the lord of the The Isle of Salt was killed at the battle of the Trident. I think it would suit him well.”

Beron nodded, agreeing with him. The Isle of Salt was a small Isle within The Bite that sat a few leagues in front of the entrance to the Saltsmaw, and while it was not a large island by any means, it was extremely profitable, sitting in the middle of three major trading routes and having extensive salt flats that had made the previous lord quite rich. It had a small trading town called Light Harbour and a light house that guided the ships towards the Maw. It also had a small fleet of five ships that the previous lord of the Isle had used for trading.

“A good keep.” Beron said before cracking a small grin, “Though im not sure how I feel about giving it to a former smuggler, especially one that knows how to get through the Wolf’s Maw without a pilot.”

Ned looked at him incredusouly. “Is this smuggler the one that you told me about?”

Beron nodded. “He’s quite an extraordinary man, one of the best sailors I’ve ever met.”

“He must be,” Howland chimed in, “If he got through the Wolf’s Maw without a pilot.”

They had reached the camp and Beorn led them to a large tent next to the central campfire. Beron strode over to the tent and pulled the door aside for them to enter. Ned walked in and looked around, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim interior.

As his eyes adjusted Ned noticed the tent’s occupants. Sitting on a bench was the Princess, her young son cradled in her arms. She looked the same as she had a few nights ago, though her long hair was unwashed and the fine clothes she had been wearing then were replaced by more ragged ones. On the floor on the other side of the tent was an old man and a little girl. They seemed to be playing with some bits of rope, and Ned’s spirits lifted to see the little girl smiling. The last time he had seen her she had been on the verge of crying.

The eyes of the tents occupants shifted to Ned as they noticed his presence. The old man got up off the floor and wandered over to him. He held out a calloused hand for Ned to shake. “Davos M’Lord.” The man greeted in a strong flea-bottom accent.

Ned glanced at Beron. “So this is the man you’ve told me about?”

Beron nodded and Ned returned his gaze to the man. “Thank you for your services to house Stark during this war.”

Davos shrugged. “I was already going to do most of what I did,” then he frowned at the princess, “though I had no plans to rescue a princess. I was going to leave that to the gallant knights.”

Beside him Beron stiffened. “There’s no such thing as gallant knights.” He spat, before turning away and muttering about ‘fucking reachmen’.

Ned nodded and gestured for Davos to take a seat at the table within the tent. “We have much to talk about.”

Davos sat down and Ned sat across from him. The Princess shifted in her seat, so she was facing Ned and Ned nodded to her. She smiled back at him and Ned turned his gaze to the little girl who had come and sat beside Davos.

Ned smiled at her and she shyly ducked beneath the table. Davos coaxed the girl out. “Say hello to Lord Stark.” He told her and she said a small hello.

Ned turned his gaze back to Davos before pouring them both a goblet of wine.

“Beron tells me you lost your fingers.” Ned said as he handed Davos a goblet. Davos winced and pulled off his left glove. He held up his hand for Ned to see, and the shortened stumps of his fingers wiggled at Ned.

“I’m sorry.” Ned said as he took a sip of his own wine.

Davos shrugged. “It’s life.”

“Beron said he also promised you something for your services. What was it?” Ned asked.

“He said he’d give my sons opportunities.” Davos said with a hint of defiance.

Ned nodded. “What sort of opportunities?”

“Squiring.”

Ned nodded again. “That’s good.”

“It is.” Davos replied. “It’s more than I could ever hope to give them.”

“Maybe not.” Ned replied. “I hear you’re a man of the sea.”

“I am.” Davos replied.

“Have you heard of the Isle of Salt?”

Davos nodded. “In the Bite.”

“Get down on one knee.” Ned commanded as he drew his new blade. Davos frowned at him, confused. “M’Lord?” He asked.

“Get down on one knee.” Ned commanded in his best lord voice and Davos complied quickly.

Ned got up from his seat and strode around to where Davos knelt. He held out his blade.

“Place your hand on the blade.” Ned instructed and Davos followed his instructions. “In the North, Starsteel is considered a holy and sanctified, a gift from the gods to men. If you swear an oath on this blade it is as binding a swearing an oath before a heart tree. Do you understand?”

“I understand” Davos replied.

“Lord Davos of house…” Ned began and waited for Davos to supply him with a name. Davos, unsure what was happening did not follow the usual procedure. Thankfully, Beron leaned in and told him what was going on. Davos eyebrows rose in shock and his mouth fell open.

“Lord Stark, really this is too much.” He began but Ned raised his hand.

“Lord Davos of house…” He repeated and Davos swallowed before glancing at Beron who nodded encouragingly.

“Seaworth.” Davos stated and Ned nodded.

“Lord Davos of house Seaworth. I hereby grant you the lands, titles and incomes of the Isle of Salt. Do you swear your fealty to Lord Saltstark?”

“I do.” Davos replied.

“Do you swear to advise him, aid him and follow his instructions?”

“I do.” Davos replied.

“Do you swear to follow him in times of peace and war?”

“I do.”

“Do you so swear it be earth and water?”

“I swear it by earth and water.”

“Do you so swear it by bronze and iron?”

“I swear it by bronze and iron.”

“Do you so swear it by ice and fire?”

“I swear it by ice and fire.” Davos finished and Ned nodded.

“Then rise, Lord Davos Seaworth of the Isle of Salt, Keeper of the Light and Lord of the Light Harbour.”

Davos struggled to his feet, face red and sputtering about how he wasn’t worthy of the honour and was just a commoner. Ned smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll make a fine lord. In the North we judge men on the merits of their actions, not the prestige of their names.”

Beron and Howland nodded solemnly, before Beron’s façade cracked and he embraced Davos in a tight hug. “Come!” He exclaimed. “Let us go and drink to your new appointment Lord Seaworth!”

The two men left the tent conversing over Davos’ new holdings, leaving Ned and Howland alone with the Princess and her children. Rhaenys had gone back to playing with the ropes on the floor and the little baby Aegon was sleeping in the Princess’s arms.

Ned turned back to her and took a seat across from her. Howland sat beside him and Ned swallowed, dreading the coming conversation. He was unsure how she would take it and the uncertainty did not sit well with Ned. Thankfully the princess chose to initiate the conversation.

“Thank you for saving my life Lord Stark.” She began. “I know my family has done much wrong by yours, and I would like to apologise for it.”

Ned frowned at her. “Have the Martell’s done something I’m not aware of?”

She smiled at him sadly. “Most probably, but I was talking of the other side of my family, the one my husband came from.”

“Ah.” Ned said, catching onto what the princess was saying. “They are your good family Princess, you are not responsible for their crimes.”

“Regardless it was a tragedy what happened to your family.”

“It was.” Ned agreed. “But I am not here to lament over the many tragedies that have befallen my family over the last two years.”

“Of course not.” The Princess said as she lowered her gaze to her sleeping son. “Are you going to hand me to your friend now?”

“I’m not sure.” Ned replied. “To be honest I have no clue what to do with you now that I’ve rescued you.”

“You could send me back to Dorne.”

Ned shook his head. “You don’t understand Princess. The world thinks you’re dead. My men framed it that way for a reason.”

“I heard your father wanted to kill me.”

Ned shrugged. “He did once upon a time, when his wounds were still fresh and his grief was still young. I don’t think he does anymore.”

“Tywin Lannister wants me dead.”

Ned nodded and winced. “He does.”

The Princess laughed. “He always was bitter that Aerys had passed over his daughter for me. I met her once you know?”

Ned shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“We travelled to Casterly Rock seeking marriages for me and possibly Oberyn. We got there shortly after Joanna Lannister had died giving birth to Tyrion. My mother breached the subject of marriage between Oberyn and Cersei Lannister to Tywin but he flatly refused, telling her that Cersei was going to marry Rhaegar. My mother got the last laugh it seemed when I married Rhaegar instead of Cersei, but with Tywin you never know. Now his daughter will most likely be queen if your sister isn’t found. He must be feeling quite smug at the moment.”

“Perhaps.” Ned conceded, “Though I doubt it with the way my father’s been treating him.”

The Princess smirked then. “Yes.” She said, “I hear your father is living up to his reputation as The Burnt Lord.”

Ned shifted uncomfortably. Some days he wasn’t sure how he felt about the man his father had become in the aftermath of his burning.

“What are you going to do with me?” Elia asked as she noted Ned’s discomfort.

Ned sighed. “For obvious reasons I can’t send you back to Dorne. I’m already hearing murmurings that your brother is trying to raise a second host. If they got you and your children in their hands they would be marching up the boneway within a moon’s turn.”

“Of course.” Elia said, though Ned noted a hint of sadness had entered her eyes.

“For the same reason’s I can’t send you to Dragonstone with Rhaegar’s son. The world thinks you, and your children dead.”

“So where will I go?” Elia asked.

“There are two options for the moment.” Ned said.

“What are they?” Elia asked.

“You can either travel to Greywater Watch with Lord Reed here. No one will ever find you there, and you will be afforded as much freedom as can be found on a floating keep within the middle of The Neck.”

“And the other option?”

“You can go to Mount Starpoint, another keep within the North. In another life it would have belonged to me and Ashara, but that will not be happening anymore. You will be safe there, and in time I can organise for you to come to Winterfell.”

“And what of my children?” Elia asked.

“For now, they would go with you wherever you choose to go.”

“And when they’re older?”

“In the North, all the children of high ranking nobles within the North are fostered at Winterfell when they turn four. I would extend the same offer to your children. I would raise them alongside my own sons and daughters.”

“What would you tell everyone?”

“That they are the bastards of one of Ashara’s relations. I’m sure she would prove agreeable. She often spoke of her admiration and love for you.”

“And shame and dishonour more than you already have?” Elia asked with a bitter smile.

“What do you mean?” Ned asked confused.

“She told me you promised to marry her. The last I had heard you married Catelyn Tully for her father’s troops.”

Ned’s mouth dropped open and he turned to Howland aghast, before turning back to Elia.

“I did not marry her!” Ned exclaimed. “Lord Hoster wanted me too, but I refused. Does she think I married Catelyn too?”

“I could not say My Lord. By the time I had received this news I had already dismissed her.”

“Dismissed her?” Ned asked, “When was this?”

“Just after she got back from Gulltown. After your brother’s wedding had been called off.”

Ned’s mouth dropped open even further and his face flushed scarlet. “She said she was going home to Starfall!” Ned exclaimed. “She promised me she was going home!”

“What did happen?” Elia asked, suddenly curious.

“She came with me all the way to White Harbour. The stubborn woman refused to leave, even when we got attacked by clansmen and when we almost drowned.”

Elia’s eyebrow rose. “She did not tell me the full story then. And at what point did you put a baby in her?”

Ned’s heart rate plummeted. “She’s pregnant?” Ned asked in a small voice he didn’t recognise.

“Yes.” Elia confirmed. “It’s why I dismissed her. By now she’d be about seven months along.”

Ned got to his feet, his head spinning. “I need to get to her.” He stammered. “She’s about to have my child.”

He rushed to the door, before stopping. “Your choice?” He asked the princess. “Will it be Mount Starpoint or Greywater Watch?”

The princess looked at Lord Reed who shrugged. “I would advise Starpoint.” He said to her. “Greywater Watch is no place to raise a child not of the crannogs.”

The princess nodded before turning back to Lord Stark. “Mount Starpoint it is then.”

Ned nodded and rushed out of the tent. First to find Beron and give him his instructions regarding the Princess, and then onto find Ashara.

He was going to have a child, Ned thought exuberantly, he was going to be a father.


	52. Rickard V: Return of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert arrives in King's Landing. Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

Robert entered King’s Landing with all the pomp and circumstance of a returning conquerer, even though he had done absolutely nothing to actually take the city. Instead he’d sat on his arse at the Trident convincing Ser Barristan Selmy to serve in his Kingsguard. Pathetic fool.

Ser Barristan deserved to die, and in their camp on the Trident Rickard had argued strenuously for the right to take his head. He had stood by and watched as Aerys had burned innocent men alive, gods he had been there on the day he was burnt and his son was killed.

Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon had stood against him though, arguing that Ser Barristan was a good way to legitimise Robert’s rule. Legitimise Robert’s rule?

If anyone wanted to argue about the legitimacy of Robert’s rule they were more than welcome to come and tell Rickard. He would call his banners and show them how right of conquest was a way of legitimising someone’s rule. Wasn’t that what Aegon had done 280 years ago with his dragons?

If anyone was to push that argument then Rickard could simply point out that the Targaryen’s rule wasn’t legitimate in the first place by their own train of thought. These southerners were just so stupid.

And annoying.

Rickard didn’t even want to think about Tywin Lannister. He had been harassing him for days, sending pages after him wanting to know all manner of things.

Where is Gregor Clegane? What happened to Amory Lorch? Where is Princess Elia? Why can’t my troops come into the city? Why do your troops get to wander the city? Why am I in the offices of the Master of Coin? I deserve the Tower of the Hand.

All Tywin Lannister had done this entire war was sit and brood in the west, until the end upon which point he had tried to sack a city, and failed.

That was why Gregor Clegane was in the Black Cells and Amory Lorch was dead. That was why Elia Martell’s fate was barred to Lannister spies. That was why Lannister troops weren’t allowed to enter the city. That was why Tywin Lannister was sitting in the offices of the Master of Coin. That was why Tywin Lannister didn’t deserve the Tower of the Hand. He had done nothing and expected everything.

The man behaved as though this was some great chess game that he was playing with Rickard. Did he not understand that Rickard had no interest in playing with him?

Maybe Rickard did have an interest in the Game of Thrones once upon a time, but then he lost a son and a daughter and got horribly scarred. Rickard figured the best way to win the game was to not play by their rules. He would do as his ancestors had done for the last 8000 years and simply play by his own rules.

Robert ascended up Aegon’s hill to the Red Keep where Rickard Stark was waiting with Ned.

Ned had been going out of his mind when he got back to the city yesterday. It turned out he’d managed to impregnate the woman who had followed him through the mountains. Rickard had convinced him to stay for Robert’s arrival before he hopped on Beron’s ship and took the fleet and the army south to finish the war and marry his betrothed.

Behind Robert came his entourage. On his right sat Jon Arryn, Robert’s foster father and the soon to be Hand of the King. On his left rode Ser Barristan, now the Lord Commander of Robert’s kingsguard. Behind them came the other principal commanders and advisors of the rebel forces. The Tully brothers, Lords Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister and Piper from the Riverlands, Lord’s Royce, Corbray, Waynwood and Redfort from the Vale. Then came the Northern Lords that Rickard had left in command of the Northern infantry forces. Lords Dustin, Mormont, Tallhart, Cerwyn, Flint, Manderly, Hornwood, Northstark, Skastark and Hellstarks were the most prominent Northern lords present.

The number of Northern lords absolutely swamped the numbers of Riverlords and Vale lords in attendance. More than two thirds of the column was made up of northern lords.

Robert dismounted in front of Rickard and Rickard bowed his head in deference. Never would Rickard kneel before a man again, not after what the last one had done to him. Rickard couldn’t trust those who thought everyone else had to bow before them. He had told Robert so as well, and thankfully Robert had agreed. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter.

“Robert.” Rickard greeted, “King’s Landing is yours.”

“Thank you Lord Stark.” Robert said before glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the Old Gate. “I couldn’t help but notice the new decorations outside the Old Gate. I must say it is quite the intimidating site.”

“Good.” Rickard replied. “Perhaps it will stop their supporters from doing anything stupid.”

Robert smiled at him before bursting out laughing and turning to Ned. He enveloped him in a hug. “Your family has been avenged Ned!” Robert cried, “Next we just have to find your sister and she will be queen! Then we’ll be real brothers!”

Ned smiled tightly, clearly wound up over the news he had received yesterday. “Aye.” Ned managed to reply.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward then, his gaudy golden armour flashing in the sun. “My King.” He said as he took the knee. “I came to take the city for you, but when I arrived your loyal allies had already taken it.”

Robert nodded and Rickard frowned.

“Do do us all a favour Lord Tywin and shut up. Your lies are convincing no one.”

Lord Tywin glared at him while Robert laughed. After a moment he turned away from Rickard and returned his gaze to Robert. “If I can be of any assistance in any capacity just let me know your grace. I have already sent word to the Lannister fleet to make their way here to help you capture Dragonstone.”

“Don’t bother.” Rickard said. “The main northern fleet should be passing the Vale now. They’ll be here within two weeks.”

Tywin’s glare could have melted stone. “Surely your fleet will need assistance though.” Tywin said as he got to his feet.

Rickard shook his head. “No I don’t think so. My Eastern fleet already broke the naval blockade of Storm’s End. I’m sure between both my Western, Eastern and Central fleets I should be able to take Dragonstone.”

Tywin gave up then and instead turned away from Rickard to speak with Jon Arryn. Robert, Ned and Rickard strode towards the throne room where Robert’s coronation would be held. Inside it had all been set up, ready for Robert to ascend to his rule.

The doors to the great hall opened and all the lords shuffled in. The only ones who remained behind were Ned, Rickard, Jon Arryn and Robert.

As the last lords filed in, Rickard turned to Ned and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him away from the crowds. “When we get in there let me explain what happened to Elia.”

Ned frowned at him. “Why?” He asked. “You weren’t there.”

“Tywin has his suspicions.” Rickard replied and Ned’s eye’s widened. He nodded before going back to join Robert and Jon. Rickard entered the great hall with Ned and Jon and felt the weight of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him.

Strangely it felt slightly similar to the last time he had been in this hall with one of his sons. His skin crawled at the memory of those hungry green flames.

Jon Arryn took the seat at the base of the throne, indicating his status as Hand of the King. Rickard and Ned stood to the right of the throne. At the end of the hall the herald stepped forth and slammed the butt of his staff upon the stones. It echoes around the chamber, quieting the buzz of conversation.

“All kneel before King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm.”

As Robert Baratheon strode into the room, all present fell to their knees with the exception of Rickard. He noticed a few strange glances sent his way, and received a rather amusing glare from Tywin Lannister. He winked at the lion lord who clenched his jaw and shifted his gaze back to Robert who was walking up the steps to the throne.

He sat down upon it before calling for the court to rise. The assembled rose to their feet and Robert began to ascertain his rule.

“Lord Jon Arryn.” He called and Jon rose from his seat to stand before the king.

“Your grace.” Jon said as he bowed low. “I am yours to serve.”

“Rise Lord Arryn. For your services to me throughout the rebellion, I would name you Hand of the King. If you have any boon you wish to ask of me, ask now.”

“Thank you your grace, but I have no boon as of this time.” Jon Arryn got to his feet and returned to his seat.

“Lord Eddard Stark.” Robert called and Ned stepped in front of the throne.

“I am yours to command, your grace.”

“Name any boon of me Ned and I will give it to you, even if it be half my kingdom.”

In the stands the present lords burst into chatter at the generosity of what Robert had just offered. It was a good show by Robert. He knew Ned would never ask for half a kingdom and so had looked incredibly generous to his erstwhile allies while still not giving much away at all. Ned glanced at Rickard and Rickard knew what he was going to ask for. Rickard shook his head at Ned and Ned seemed torn for a moment, before acquiescing to Rickard’s will.

“No your grace.” Ned said, “I am content with what I have.”

Robert leaned forward. “Are you sure Ned?”

Ned nodded. “If I can, your grace, may I gift my boon to my father?”

“Of course.” Robert replied and Ned nodded before stepping back to Rickard’s side.

“Rickard Stark.” Robert called and Rickard stepped forth.

“Your Grace,” Rickard said, as he bowed his head in deference. His actions caused the throne room to burst into murmurs again. Robert looked out upon the whispering masses, before turning his gaze back to Rickard.

“Let it be known, that from this day forth Rickard Stark does not have to kneel before me or my descendants.”

This caused even more murmurings to occur.

“Rickard Stark,” Robert continued, “If you have any boon you would ask of me, ask me now. As you have no doubt also heard, your son has chosen to give his boon unto you. If you wish to use that boon also ask me now.”

Rickard nodded and stepped forward. “There are a few things your grace.”

Robert nodded and Rickard turned to the back of the hall, where Stark soldiers stood guard. He nodded to them and the doors opened to reveal three caskets held aloft by more Stark soldiers. The soldiers entered the throne room and set the caskets down before the throne.

Rickard returned his gaze to Robert, who he noticed had a hungry and triumphant gleam in his eyes. A glance to Tywin confirmed that he was also satisfied with what Rickard had produced, though he caught the shadows of a smirk playing across his features.

“Your grace, for my first boon, I ask for justice.”

Robert frowned at Rickard. “Justice?” He asked.

“Yes.” Rickard replied. “Justice. Justice for Elia Martell and her children who were killed by a Lannister bannerman, Amory Lorch, and assisted by another Lannister bannerman, Gregor Clegane.”

“What do you want me to do?” Robert asked.

“Amory Lorch is already dead, slain after he attacked my son while being caught in the act of raping Elia Martell. I ask that you take the head of Gregor Clegane and whoever gave him his orders.”

“If I may your grace,” Tywin interrupted, “Can we see the contents of the caskets?”

Robert nodded. “At once.”

Rickard nodded to his men, who tore of the lids of the caskets. Inside the first casket, was a small collection of bones, clearly belonging to a babe, with a smashed skull. Inside the second was the skeleton of another infant, though the ribcage of this one had been shattered. The final casket revealed a broken and shattered skeleton that hardly resembled a human at all.

“I had the bodies prepared by the silent sisters before your arrival.” Rickard explained. “Ned and I are planning to travel to Dorne on the morrow to deliver them.”

“How do we know these skeletons belong to who you say they do Lord Stark?” Tywin asked and Rickard glared at him.

“Are you calling me a liar?” He asked in a low voice.

“Not at all.” Tywin replied with a smug grin. “I’m just saying you were misinformed about whose bodies these were.”

“What are you saying Lannister?” Robert interrupted and Tywin smirked at Rickard triumphantly.

“I am saying that these are not the skeletons of Elia Martell and her children.”

Tywin’s declaration was met with uproar, especially from the lords of the North. Greatjon Umber had almost drawn his sword from his scabbard and was already advancing down the hall towards him.

“ENOUGH!” Rickard roared and the northern lords fell silent, though they still simmered in fury. “Explain yourself Lord Tywin.”

Tywin nodded and turned to the king. “When I arrived at the city I had sent men to ensure the princess was kept safe.”

Rickard scoffed and drew _Ice_. “If you’re going to tell a tale Lord Tywin, tell it true or don’t tell it at all.”

“Quiet!” Robert roared at Rickard and Rickard turned his glare upon the king, who shrunk back in his throne, before regathering his courage. “Not another word until he has finished what he has to say.”

Rickard smiled at the king tightly before nodding his head and turning back to Tywin. Tywin smiled at him, before resuming his tale.

“As I was saying, after the city had been taken the knowledge of everything was barred to me. Rickard refused to meet with me, and kept diverting my pages to Lord Bolton. So I sent my men into the city to find people who had known what had happened.”

“Is this true Lord Stark?” Robert asked. “Did you refuse to meet with Lord Lannister?”

“Of course I refused to meet with Lord Lannister!” Rickard scoffed.

“Why?” Robert asked.

“He was annoying me!” Rickard snapped. “He had done absolutely nothing the entire war and then showed up at the end to take a city that was by all rights ours to take!”

Robert nodded thoughtfully before gesturing for Lord Lannister to go on.

“My men found a woman in the fish markets who swore she had seen the princess on the day of the capture of King’s Landing fleeing towards the docks.”

“So what?” Grumbled Robert. “The commoners tell many tales. Doesn’t mean they’re all true!”

“And I would be inclined to agree with you, your grace, but for two reasons.” Tywin continued. “The first, the woman we found worked within the Red Keep, in the kitchens and had seen the princess on multiple occasions. Secondly, Aerys had been keeping a ship in the docks down there in case he needed to leave the city in a rush. It was called _The Seadragon._ A few minutes after this woman said she saw her, that ship was reported to have left the docks.”

Robert rose to his feet. “Well then whose bodies are these?”

“I don’t know.” Tywin replied, “But I do have a suggestion of what happened.”

“Go on.” Robert said.

“I believe these are decoys placed there by sympathisers to the crown. Meanwhile Elia fled with her children to the docks and escaped to Dragonstone.”

Robert turned to the crowds. “Lord Varys!” He called and the spymaster of Aerys stepped forth.

“You asked for an opportunity to prove yourself to my rule! Here it is, go and find out what happened to the ship!”

Lord Varys nodded and went to rush away when he was stopped by another voice. “There is no need.” Beron Saltstark said as he emerged from the masses of men. “I sunk _The Seadragon_ as it left the city yesterday.”

The court sat in silence while they digested this news, and then Robert said what everyone was thinking. “Well then regardless the whore and her Dragonspawn are dead!”

“Robert!” Ned said as he stepped forth, horror in his features, “They were innocent! It was two infants and a woman!”

“They were Rhaegar’s spawn!” Robert spat. “They deserved to die for having his blood running through their veins!”

“And what of Elia Martell!” Ned cried, “She had none of Rhaegar’s blood!”

“She lay with him!” Robert roared.

“They were innocent!” Ned insisted.

“Oh by the gods Ned… by your own man’s admission he may have killed them! How’s that for justice!”

Rickard stiffened, angry at having his words thrown back in his face. “Justice has already been had for house Targaryen. Aerys was slain by a white sword and Rhaegar will forever watch over the city of his ancestors. Justice has not been had for the murderers of Elia Martell and her children!”

“Well then kill Beron Saltstark!” Robert roared.

The hall, if it had been quiet before, dropped to a silence so complete you could have heard the sound of a pin dropping.

Wordlessly Ned stormed for the door, most of the Northern lords following him. “Where are you going?!” Robert roared. “I haven’t given you my permission to leave!”

Ned whirled around, anger lining his long features. “With respect _your grace_ , I don’t need your permission to leave. Don’t forget Robert that it was northern soldiers who put you on this throne. It is northern soldiers that can take you off of it, just as quickly as they put you on it.”

Robert’s face turned scarlet and he made to reply but Ned had already left. Most of the other northern lords had gone with him, leaving just Rickard, Lord Bolton and Rodrick Walton behind.

“You should teach your son to respect his king.” Tywin said, but was silenced when Robert turned his baleful gaze upon Tywin. “Enough!” He snarled.

Rickard stepped forth once more. “I believe I still have a boon to ask of you, your grace.”

Robert glared at him. “What do you want?!” He snapped.

Rickard smiled at the angry king. “I would ask that you release my daughter from her betrothal to you.”

“No!” Robert roared and he got up from his throne. “I fought a war for her hand and I will not lose it now! She loves me and I love her!”

Rickard briefly pondered telling Robert the truth, but then decided not to. Let him live in his fantasy. Maybe his love for Lyanna will poison his love for whoever eventually becomes his wife. From the way that Tywin was trying to surpress his grin Rickard guessed it would soon end up being Cersei Lannister.

“Very well.” Rickard said “But I believe that still leaves me with a boon to ask of you. I will be back for it one day.” 

Then without another word he turned and followed his son. He would finish this war, find his daughter and see Ned married to the woman he loved.


	53. Eddard XV: Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned's upset. Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

Ned left the Throne Room literally shaking in anger. What was wrong with Robert?! Was he not aware of whose head he had just asked for? The man had lost two brothers saving Robert’s ancestral keep, Storm’s End and instead of rewarding him like he deserved he had thrown his service back in his face and called for the man’s head!

Gods, he was glad his father had told Robert now. If Ned had of done it the way he wanted to Robert would have told him to bring him the heads of the innocents he had rescued. At first Ned had thought he was protecting the princess and her children from Tywin Lannister, but now he realised that she would be safer with everyone believing she was dead. He had hoped that he would be able to tell Robert what he had done, but now he knew he could not.

Gods, Ned realised with a start, what he had done was treason! Ned shook his head. He had done the right thing. Technically he had already committed treason against one king, what was another act of treason against the other?

It must have been something about the Iron Throne, something that drove men mad with the power it granted them. The Robert that had sat upon that throne was not the Robert that had been raised alongside Eddard Stark in the halls of the Eyrie. That Robert would never have stood by as a man attempted to kill two children and a woman. That man would have been ashamed of himself.

Elia Martell and her children would be safe in Starpoint though. It was an impregnable fortress within the Northern Mountains, guarded and manned by the deadliest warriors in the world, men and women that spent every day of every year practicing with every weapon under the sun. Those warriors were the Old God’s chosen harbingers. None would be able to stand against them, or take their charges from them. Tywin Lannister’s gold couldn’t reach them there, nor could Robert’s armies. Ned just hoped they would get there safely.

Beron had left it to Davos and The Weirwood Warriors that had rescued them to get her and her children to Mount Starpoint and they were as capable hands as any. Lord Seaworth had already rescued the princess from the jaws of the Red Keep when the world thought she was dead, he figured he would be more than able to get her to the North, especially with the protection of The Weirwood Warriors.

Ned left the Red Keep with his lords following behind him. He made his way to the stable and readied his horse. Together, he and his lords rode down to the docks, where some of the Northern army was boarding the Eastern Fleet.

The North’s cavalry, the 40,000 men who took King’s Landing, would ride down the King’s Road to Storm’s End while Ned would take the infantry, another 40,000 men down the coast and disembark at Storm’s End. There, they would finally break the land siege of Storm’s End, not that it was doing much nowadays, before Ned would send the army home. From there Ned and his father and some trusted companions would travel to Sunspear to return the ‘bodies’ of Elia Martell and her children. Then it would be on to Ashara, onto marry her and be there when she gave birth to his child. Then from there Ned would set out with his father to find his sister, whichever hole Rhaegar had hidden her in.

His father had somehow found out where she was hidden, though for now he had refused to tell Ned. He had just said it was in Dorne. Ned’s thoughts of Dorne and Ashara led him to think of another Dayne, one he hadn’t thought of in a while, and one he hadn’t seen he had knelt before the Heart Tree with Ashara.

Ned wondered if Arthur Dayne knew where his sister was, if he was guarding her even now. Ned dreaded crossing blades with Arthur. It was one of the last outcomes Ned wanted to face, and not simply because Arthur was a knight of renown and skill.

“Ned!” A voice said and Ned stirred to see Beron approaching him.

“Beron.” Ned greeted sadly. “I am sorry for what Robert said.”

Beron shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. One day, when the White Wolf comes, all insults will be repaid.”

“Aye.” Ned replied sadly. “They will.”

Ned just hoped the White Wolf did not come in his lifetime. He had no intention of going to war with the South again. Ned just wanted to go home with Ashara and his child and live a happy, contended and peaceful life.

“The ships will be loaded within the hour.” Beron said as they walked down the dock together. “We can leave by this evening’s tide.”

“Good.” Ned replied, but he felt no joy. “How fare the men?”

“Morale is high.” Beron replied. “We smashed them at Stoney Sept, We smashed them at the Trident, I smashed them at Storm’s End, You smashed them at God’s Eye, We took King’s Landing almost bloodlessly and now we march to destroy the last Targaryen loyalist’s host.”

“Good.” Ned replied, “Though I doubt Mace Tyrell will put up much of a fight, especially with Lord Tarly in our possession.”

Lord Tarly was currently being held in Raventree hall, under the guard of Lord Blackwood’s men. It was well known that Tarly was Mace Tyrell’s most competent battle commander, and had delivered to Robert his only defeat. In truth, Ned fully expected Lord Tyrell to bend the knee the second Ned and his armies arrived.

Beron nodded and rushed away to oversee the loading of some crates onto one of his ships. Ned found himself alone at the end of the docks, staring out over the waters of the Blackwater Rush and towards Blackwater Bay.

He felt a hand alight on his shoulder and turned to see the horrible visage of his father. He embraced the man in a hug, and buried his face in his shoulder. Ned hadn’t felt like this in years, and he hadn’t cried into his father’s shoulder like this since before he was eight.

“It’s alright.” His father murmured as he patted his back consolingly. “It’s alright. We got the better of them in the end.”

Ned sobbed even harder, reminded of the crime he had now committed. He had thought Robert would stand by in protecting the innocents of this conflict, but instead he had rejoiced in the slaughter of children.

“Where did we go wrong?” Ned asked. “Since when did we condone the murder of innocents?”

“We don’t.” Rickard replied.

“Our king did.” Ned stated.

“He’s no king of mine.” Rickard shot back.

“Don’t say that father.” Ned pleaded.

“Why not?”

“It’s treason.”

“So was rebelling against Aerys.” Rickard snarled.

“I have no plans to rebel against Robert.”

“And neither do I.” Rickard replied. “But I will not recognise Robert as my king. I did not bend the knee.”

“No you did not.” Ned replied, “But I did.”

“I know.” Rickard said with what Ned thought was a twinge of sadness. “But we have more important things to do now.”

“Aye.”

“The siege of Storm’s End must be lifted, and then onto Sunspear.”

“Then we will see Ashara.”

“Yes,” Rickard replied, “Then onto see Ashara and marry her.”

“And then we find Lya.”

“Aye.” Rickard replied wistfully. “And then onto find Lya.”

Have you found her yet?” Ned asked his father.

“Yes.” His father replied, “My spies sent word yesterday. Apparently she’s holed up in a place called the Tower of Joy with the remaining Kingsguard.”

“Where’s that?” Ned asked.

“In Dorne.” His father replied, “About two weeks north of Starfall.”

“Good.” Ned replied, relief washing over him. It was good to receive some good news after so much heartache. “Soon she’ll be home.”

“Aye.” Rickard replied, perhaps a touch sadly. “Soon she’ll be home.”

With that Ned’s father turned and walked away, off to see someone else. Ned turned to the ship he would be sailing on, Beron’s _The Salty Wolf_ , when he was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned to behold Jon Arryn standing before him.

Ned squinted at him suspiciously. Had Robert sent him?

“What do you want Jon?” Ned asked, “Has Robert sent you to drag me back to him?”

Jon Arryn smiled at him sadly. “No.” He replied, “He’s gone off to find himself a drink I believe. He wasn’t happy after your father tried to break the betrothal, and then to add salt to his wound when he offered Tywin a boon, he asked if he would marry his daughter Cersei Lannister.”

“Good.” Ned snarled. “He deserved a frigid bitch like her. Lyanna would hate Robert.”

“Ned…” Jon pleaded.

“Don’t Ned me!” Ned snapped. “I’m not the one who not only refused to bring murderers to justice, but instead accused the man who saved his ancestral home of their crimes!”

“That’s not fair Ned.”

“Not fair!” Ned exclaimed. “Beron Saltstark lost both of his brother when he broke the naval blockade of Storm’s End and how does Robert repay him? By telling my father if he wants justice for Elia Martell he has to kill him! That is what is not fair!”

“Ned the babes would have been a threat to his reign.”

Ned stared at Jon, slightly taken aback. “Are you defending what Tywin Lannister did?” He asked incredulously.

“No!” Jon exclaimed with a twist of his features, “I just, this war has been hard on all of us Ned.”

“Really?” Ned asked, “I wouldn’t have noticed. I only lost a brother, had my sister kidnapped and my father almost burned alive! Throughout all of that I didn’t realise this war wasn’t sunshine and happiness for all of us!”

“Ned…” Jon pleaded one last time. “Don’t let your depature with Robert be on bad terms.”

“He’s the one who left it on bad terms.” Ned insisted.

“You threatened to throw him from his throne.” Jon replied.

“He threatened one of my most loyal bannermen.”

“He did.” Jon conceded, “He did the wrong thing.”

“I will not see Robert until he has issued a formal apology to Beron at the very least.”

Jon sighed, before nodding his head. “I will see what I can do.”

“Good.” Ned replied before going to walk off.

“Ned!” Jon called.

Ned turned around and looked back at his foster father. “You’ve done well.” Jon affirmed. “You made the right decision in fighting for the innocents. Many a weaker man would have fled before Robert’s wrath.”

Ned nodded, slightly warmed at his foster father’s words, before he allowed his fury to fill him again. “Many a weaker man would have fled from Aerys’ madness too.”

Jon winced at Ned’s insinuation before Ned turned and stormed off to meet with Beron and prepare to leave on the evening tide.


	54. Tywin IV: The Burnt Wolf.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard and Tywin have a chat. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Tywin Lannister wandered into the offices of the Master of Coin to be greeted by the sight of Rickard Stark rifling through the letters on his desk. The Burnt Lord looked up upon his arrival before smiling at him in that grotesque way that twisted his burns even further, a sight that would give nightmares to even the most battle hardened of men. Tywin was sure that there would be some Targaryen soldiers somewhere that would see this face when they closed their eyes.

Tywin Lannister wasn’t sure how to feel about Rickard Stark. He had thought he had known all he needed to of the North when this war began, but then he had been surprised beyond his wildest dreams.

It seemed the North was not the underdeveloped, sparsely populated backwater the Stark’s had led the realm to believe. The Stark’s had marched south with an army as large as that of the Reach, backed by a navy that could have rivalled even the royal navy if Rickard Stark was to be believed. Tywin hadn’t believed what his scouts had told him of the Northern host until it had actually arrived, some 80,000 men, 40,000 of which rode horses. It seemed Tywin and the rest of the realm had gravely underestimated the Starks, but it was not a mistake Tywin planned on making again.

“What are you doing?” Tywin asked as he stepped into the room, his hand on the sword that hung at his side.

Rickard continued to smile that horrible smile at him before sitting down in the chair behind Tywin’s desk. “Please.” He said, “Take a seat.”

Tywin stiffened. This was an insult of the highest order to be treated as a guest within his own offices. “I think I will stand.” Tywin replied.

Rickard just smirked at him, before shrugging. “So be it.”

“What do you want?” Tywin asked The Burnt Lord again.

“Just to talk.” Rickard replied. “I didn’t realise that my refusal to speak with you had caused you so much offence, so here I am to rectify it.”

Tywin nodded and took a seat across from Rickard.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Rickard asked as he continued to rifle through Tywin’s letters.

“Can you stop that?!” Tywin snapped at Rickard. Rickard stopped his rifling and lifted his gaze to meet with Tywin’s. “Stop what?” The Burnt Lord asked in a soft voice. “Stop rifling through your letters?”

“Yes!” Tywin replied. “That is private communications between me and my men.”

“What did you want to talk about Lord Lannister?”

“Why are you lying about Elia Martell?” Tywin asked.

“Why are you lying about Elia Martell?” Rickard shot back.

“My men didn’t kill her and her children.” Tywin said as he smirked at Rickard. “Didn’t you hear the king? Beron Saltstark was responsible.”

Tywin saw a crack appear in the smug façade of The Burnt Lord, and felt a rush of pride. “Beron Saltstark was a fool.” Rickard replied. “But you aren’t are you Lord Lannister?”

“What do you mean?”

“You must be feeling quite proud of yourself at the moment mustn’t you? Soon you’ll have a daughter for a queen. Is that what you killed Elia for?”

Tywin snorted. “Haven’t you heard Lord Stark? Beron Saltstark killed Elia Martell.”

Rickard just rolled his eyes. “Okay Tywin.” He replied, “Whatever you say.”

Tywin Lannister was sick of the disrespect of this man. To not even refer to him by his first name was an insult of the highest level, an insult that if word got out of it, his legacy would be threatened.

Tywin got to his feet and lorded over Rickard Stark. “Listen here burnt wolf.” Tywin spat “Just because you killed Rhaegar it does not make you one of the Kings of Winter come again! In case you don’t remember the last time you were in this city you were running like the pup you are, with your tail tucked in between your legs while your abomination of a son-”

Tywin got no further because he had been thrown backwards across the room. His head cracked against the stone wall and his vision blurred. His body began to slump to the floor, not responding to his sluggish thoughts, when he was caught by his neck and slammed against the wall once again.

He felt something crack against his cheeks in rapid succession and then a hot breath on his ear.

“Now _you_ listen here oh great Lord of Lannister. Do you know what they say of me in the streets? Do you know what they whisper of me in the darkness? They say I am a man who defied death’s very grasp! They call me The Burnt Lord and I wear that title as a badge of honour! From Dorne to the Wall they whisper my name in fear! The only people who whisper your name in fear are the ghosts of Castamere! This is my first and last warning for you Lord Tywin. Disrespect me, anger me, provoke me in the slightest ever again and I will make Rhaegar’s death look merciful compared as to what I will do to you! Am I clear?”

Tywin’s mouth refused to move and he felt the crack of Rickard’s gauntlet across his cheek. “Am I clear?! ” Rickard roared in his face.

“Yes…” Tywin managed to slur out.

“Good.” Rickard replied and he stepped away from Tywin, letting his throat go. Tywin collapsed to the floor, unable to hold his own weight up. He sucked in great lungfuls of air and his vision cleared. He looked up to see Rickard Stark glaring down at him, a sneer playing across his features.

For the first time since meeting Rickard Stark Tywin understood why his soldiers had heard whisperers of the Lord that had torn the realm apart in his quest for vengeance. At the moment, from where Tywin lay Rickard Stark looked all the part of The Burnt Lord that the commoners whispered of in fear. His grey eyes burned right through Tywin, and the horrible scars on his face caught the light and twisted him into the grotesque monster that had turned Rhaegar Targaryen into a tree and mutilated Jon Connington. This was the man that was rumoured by the Riverlords to have taken Riverrun in a midnight storm and swayed the entirety of the riverlords to his cause.

The Burnt Lord stared at him for a while before wandering over to the wine that sat on the side table and poured himself a cup. He took a long draught before placing the wine goblet down again. He turned back around and knelt beside Tywin who was still lying on the floor.

“I come from a line of kings 8000 years old. Aerys Targaryen thought because his ancestors had dragons he could do what he wanted with me. I proved him wrong. You think that because you have a literal mountain of gold you can do what you want too. I can prove you wrong as well if you would like. The Stark’s endure Lord Tywin, and we will endure for another 8000 years of the Old God’s will it.”

The Burnt Lord breathed deeply before getting back to his feet. Tywin crawled to his feet and stood up on shaking feet. “You may be from a line of kings, but when Cersei marries Robert, your grandchildren will bow to mine.”

The Burnt Lord smiled coldly before striding to the door. “Watch me prove you wrong Lord Tywin.”

With that The Burnt Lord stormed out of the room, leaving the lingering smell of blood and charred flesh in his wake.

Tywin sat down in his chair behind his desk before pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill. Tywin Lannister had shown House Reyne who was the undisputed lord and he would show Rickard Stark as well. All he needed was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> I've got a tumblr now if any of you want to talk to me in private about the fic or anything else. My username is kingofwinter11.  
> Thanks,  
> KingOfWinter


	55. Rhaella I: Fleeing Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella makes plans.

Outside of Dragonstone’s walls the Targaryen fleet was preparing for war. Word had been received from loyalists within the Vale that a vast fleet of ships flying the standards of the running direwolf was making their way down the coast, in preparation for an attack upon Dragonstone. Even more ships had been spotted within Blackwater Bay and loyalists within the Stormlands had sent word of yet another fleet of northern ships patrolling Shipbreaker Bay.

The last that word that had been received from King’s Landing was that two armies where approaching, one from the west and one from the North. The Northern one had clearly belonged to the rebels, but Rhaella wasn’t sure if the Western one belonged to Tywin Lannister or Randyll Tarly. The lack of news from King’s Landing since the last raven seemed to suggest that the city had fallen, though to who was still unknown. There was still so much that Rhaella and her supporters on Dragonstone did not know.

She looked down and stroked the growing curve of her stomach. It had been Aerys’ last gift to her on the night before she had left King’s Landing for Dragonstone. It had left her with so many bruises and scratches that she had had to leave with a hood covering her head.

Hopefully this child would grow strong to reclaim the lands of its ancestors. One day it would stand by Viserys’ side as he swept those who had wronged her family away in a storm of Fire and Blood. Rhaella sighed. Aerys and his madness had doomed her and her children to a life of exile, living in strange foreign lands, never knowing the lands of their birth.

Rhaella wondered if it was worth treating with the man they called The Burnt Lord, but then she had heard of the fate of Jon Connington and realised that The Burnt Lord had no interest in taking prisoners.

As she sat down at the table where she and Viserys were being served food, the door opened and the old Maester that served hurried into the room a scroll clutched in his hands. He hurried over to where Rhaella was sitting and offered her the scroll. She plucked it from his grasp and rolled it open.

 

_To the remnants of house Targaryen,_

_Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, slain by Rickard Stark before the gates of King’s Landing._

_Aerys Targaryen is dead, slain by Jamie Lannister as he fled the Throne Room._

_Aegon Targaryen is dead, slain by his enemies,_

_Rhaenys Targaryen is dead, slain by her enemies,_

_Elia Martell is dead, slain by her enemies._

_Jon Connington and his host where defeated at Stoney Sept._

_Paxtor Redwyne’s fleet was torn usunder at Storm’s End._

_Randyll Tarly and his host where destroyed at the God’s Eye._

_Rhaegar Targaryen and his host were decimated at the Trident._

_King’s Landing fell to Rickard and Eddard Stark leading 40,000 northern soldiers._

_Your only victory was at Ashford, where Robert Baratheon was alone and friendless._

_Surrender for your hopes of victory are naught._

Rhaella looked up at the Maester. “Where did this come from?” She asked.

“King’s Landing my queen.”

Rhaella nodded. She wondered who had sent it. She turned to the Admiral of the Targaryen fleet, Lucerys Velaryon who had fled from King’s Landing with her. “How goes the preparation of the fleet?” She asked.

“It is ready your grace. We have another fleet ready for you to flee in as well.”

“Good.” Rhaella said as she turned to Viserys. “Come here Viserys.”

Viserys got up from his table and ran around the table to stand in front of his mother. Rhaella stood up and pulled her crown from her head.

“As the only surviving male scion of House Targaryen, I hereby pronounce you Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

With that Rhaella placed her own crown upon his head, before lowering herself to one knee before him. Around her, all the other occupants of the room followed her example. She rose after a moment, and turned to the Maester. “Send ravens to all the Great Houses to support the ascension of Viserys to his throne.”

“My queen, forgive my impertinence, but all support for your house has dried up within Westeros. The last army you have left sits outside of Storm’s End, and rumour has it that Lord Stark and his son are on their way there now.”

“I know.” Rhaella replied before turning to the castle castellan, Ser Willem Darry. “Pack the household up and into what baots we have available. We flee at first light.”

The aged knight nodded before turning and rushing away to do as she bid. She turned her gaze on the Maester. “Go and send those ravens at once.”

The Maester nodded and went to do as he had been told. Lucerys rushed forward and helped her into a seat. “Rhaella,” he murmured, “You cannot travel in your condition. It would do you and the baby harm.”

“I know.” Rhaella sighed. “But what other choice do I have?” She asked.

“Surrender and beg for mercy.” Lucerys suggested gently.

“Mercy?” Rhaella asked incredulously. “Not only did they kill Rhaegar they also killed his children, two infants! The only mercy I will receive from any of them will be a quick death for me and my children. No! I will not have that, we will flee!”

“Where will you go though?”

“We have holdings in Braavos.” Rhaella declared and Lucerys shook his head.

“No. Braavos is all but owned by The Company of the Rose. You would find no safe harbour there. They are some of the North’s closest allies.”

“Where then?” Rhaella asked.

“Volantis perhaps.” Lucerys suggested. “Relations between the North and Volantis are few and far in between. Westerosi have never dealt in slaves. Behind the black walls you will be safe from any assisains the Usurper or the Stark’s will send after you.”

“Volantis then.” Rhaella declared. “Set a course for it tonight ready for us when we leave in the morn.”

Lucerys nodded and rushed away, leaving Rhaella alone with her thoughts.

She prayed to whatever gods where listening to allow her and her children to escape to Volantis. She had no clue if it would be far enough to escape The Burnt Lord’s reach, but surely even the North would baulk at provoking the first daughter of Valyria, the most powerful of all the Free Cities.

The North had proven that they were not what they had led them all to believe, but were they powerful enough to extend their reach within the Black Walls, walls that only the blood of Old Valyria could pass through. Her head told her no, but then her head had also told her that Rhaegar would win the battle of the Trident. He had lost though, and then killed by Rickard Stark himself before his armies swarmed the gates of King’s Landing.

She remembered back to the last day she had seen him, his cold grey eyes glaring maliciously at all who had stood by and watched as her husband had tried to burn him alive. She remembered the way they had slid over all of those present, committing them all to memory.

Then his gaze had returned to her husband and had hardened even further. She still remembered the way those grey eyes stared even as the flames licked at his gilded armour, even as his screams split the air, even as the skin around his face began to melt from the heat. Then it had all gone wrong and Brandon Stark had become a monster of legend, half man, half wolf and he had torn the city apart in his attempts to free his father.

He had succeeded to her houses detriment and Rickard Stark had done what none other had managed over 300 years. He had achieved what the Dornish, the Blackfyres and the Ninepenny Kings had failed at; throwing the Targaryen’s from the Iron Throne.

Robert Baratheon may have been the one they crowned king, but history would remember this conflict as Rickard’s Rebellion, not Robert’s Rebellion. It was Rickard Stark who had been wronged, and it was Rickard Stark who had torn them all down and killed her son, the one they called The Last Dragon.

The Last Dragon was dead, and with his death had come the collapse of all support for House Targaryen. None wanted to support a child king, especially one with a father like Aerys. With Rhaegar they at least had assurance that he was not like his father, but Viserys had been given no chance to prove otherwise to anyone.

Rhaella sighed. It seemed that The Dragons had finally fallen from the lofty heights that Aegon the Conqueror had brought them. One day her children would return House Targaryen to its place among the stars, for now though she would flee to the east to give Viserys time to grow into the King he had to be to stop the Starks and reclaim the Iron Throne.


	56. Mace I: Bending the knee.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mace bends the knee. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Mace Tyrell watched as the battle-hardened, grizzled soldiers flying the banners of house Stark arrayed their forces into battle lines behind the siege lines that surrounded Storm’s End. They had landed further up the coast under the cover of last night’s darkness, and then undertaken a midnight march to catch Mace’s troops unawares. As the sun peeked over the horizon it had revealed the vast host that was prepared to fight them.

The siege of Storm’s End had been a disaster from Mace’s perspective, accomplishing exactly nothing. It should have been an easy conquest, a castle low on supplies and lightly garrisoned by green boys and old men. The green boys and old men had proven more stubborn than Mace and his commanders had envisioned, leading the common soldiers to dub the castles commander, the young Stannis Baratheon, Stubborn Starvin’ Stannis.

Then the Northern Fleet had arrived with the monster that had singlehandedly wiped out a quarter of Paxtor Redwyne’s fleet. Mace had seen it himself from afar when he had been observing the fleet from the coast one day. It had launched itself from beneath the surface in an explosion of seawater before smashing into a ship that had broken up like matchwood beneath its great weight.

The few Maesters that had accompanied them suggested it to be some strange monster that lived in the cold waters of the North called a whale. They suggested that it may have been controlled by a warg somewhere.

Between the monster and the swift Northern fleet that attacked only under cover of darkness, the Redwyne fleet had broken, fleeing down the coast, back to the much safer waters of the Arbour. Now the garrison that had been starving and low on men and supplies was refreshed and relived by the same northern ship that had slipped through their lines every night for two weeks. It had taken them two weeks to figure out what they were doing, and by the time they did the Garrison had been relieved and the Redwyne fleet was either sitting at the bottom of Shipbreaker bay or fleeing down the coast.

Then a further blow had come to Mace’s siege efforts when word had come from the capital demanding reinforcements from Mace’s host. Randyll Tarly had left with almost half of his host, some 20,000 men. Mace had heard later that they had all but disappeared somewhere around God’s Eye. If he would ever see any of them again, it seemed no one would know.

With half the host he had once had and a castle that was well stocked, well manned and being resupplied almost daily, Mace wondered what he was doing here. It had gone so bad that his mother had decided to come and fix up the mess that had been made of this siege, arriving in a gilded carriage and flanked by almost 200 guards.

She had entered the command tent and immediately begun barking commands at him in front of his banner men much to his own embarrassment. She stood next to him now, clutching his arm as she watched the Stark line settle down in preparation for battle.

Her lips were pursed and she watched the line with a growing scowl. “He’s managed to outsmart us too…” She muttered. “It wouldn’t be insulting if it was just you here, but thanks to my own sense of self-preservation I’m here too. If I die because of your incompetence you great fool, I’ll chase you through the seven hells. Are you listening to me Mace?”

Mace nodded wordlessly, unable to tear his eyes away from the three men who rode along the front lines of the Stark column.

The first was the most normal of the three men, riding a chestnut stallion and wearing plain grey plate armour. The only splash of colour on the man was the beautiful white scabbard that hung at his side. Thrown over his shoulders was a fur cloak, and grasped firmly in his hands was the banner of the Starks, fluttering in the wind that blew.

The next man was also dressed in plain grey plate, but this was where the similarities ended. He rode a grey stallion and on his back was a giant greatsword that could have only been _Ice_ , the ancestral Valyrian Steel blade of House Stark. He wore a dappled grey cloak that fluttered in the wind, but the most horrifying aspect of the man was the horrible scars that covered his face. This could only be Rickard Stark, infamously known throughout the seven kingdom as The Burnt Lord.

Next to him rode the strangest and the weirdest of the three. He rode a great White Hart, and running by his side was two wolves, while on his shoulder sat a giant golden eagle. His armour seemed to be made of bronze and steel, while he wore a helm of White Weirwood that concealed his features.

Mace swallowed thickly. He had heard the rumours of what Brandon Stark had done at King’s Landing. He wondered if this was one of the monsters that Brandon Stark was said to have been.

“Well what are you waiting for?” His mother snapped at him. “Send an envoy with peace terms before they decide to attack!”

Mace nodded before gesturing for his herald to go. He didn’t tear his eyes away from the opposing host once. The herald nodded and spurred his horse forward, into the stretch of ground that lay between the opposing hosts.

Almost immediately the stance of the Stark host changed. Where once they had been relaxed, their men snapped into formation. He saw their archers raised their bows, while their infantry men lowered their spears and crouched behind their shields. The cavalry they had with them lowered the lances and crouched into the saddles, while from out of the ranks of men hundreds of animals melted forwards. Wolves, bears, lions, and hulking beasts that were almost twice the size of normal wolves, but still smaller than the Direwolves that ran upon the Stark’s banners.

The eagle that sat upon the shoulder of the man who rode the White Hart took flight and drifted across the fields towards the herald who continued to make his way forward. Rickard Stark spurred his own horse forward, and was flanked by his companions as they rode out to meet the herald.

They met just beyond half way from Mace’s lines, and words were exchanged that Mace could not hear. For a moment nothing happened, and then the herald turned around and spurred his horse back to their lines. Rickard Stark and his companions stayed behind however, watching Mace’s herald as he rushed back to them.

“He says he’ll talk terms now. Meet him where he sits now.” The herald said as he pulled his horse to a stop.

Mace nodded before turning to and mounting his horse. His mother turned to her guards. “Bring me a litter, quick!” She cried.

Mace frowned at his mother. “Surely you don’t mean to come to mother?”

“Of course I do!” She snapped. “That is the man who turned Rhaegar Targaryen into a tree! He’d eat you alive for breakfast if even given half a chance!”

Mace’s head swivelled back to The Burnt Lord, who still sat watching them impassively. He swallowed before turning to Matthis Rowan. “What do you think?” He asked.

“I advise caution My Lord.” Lord Rowan said as he watched The Burnt Lord too. “We have no clue what he is capable of. He’s lived through things that would kill most men.”

Mace nodded. He was amazed at fast his heart was going. You would think that he was about to greet the Stranger himself instead of just treat with another lord paramount. He swallowed thickly before nodding to his retinue and spurring his horse forward. Mace trotted forward slowly, attempting to keep a sense of dignity about him, but if that expression that graced The Burnt Lord’s features was a smirk, then Mace wasn’t doing a good job.

They rode out to greet The Burnt Lord and his companions meeting them where the Stark’s waited for them. Mace’s mother descended from her litter and leaned on the arm of one of her guardsmen.

Up close, Rickard Stark’s scars were even more horrible, burnt and melted patches of skin that covered everything Mace could see. All his hair had been burnt away, leaving a marred but surprisingly shiny surface behind. The normal man had the traditional Stark look and Mace assumed that this was Eddard Stark, Rickard’s second son. He thought he recognised him from the Tourney of Harrenhall, but the man had a plain face and Mace could not be certain.

Beneath him his horse shifted nervously as it caught sight and scent of the two wolves that accompanied the third man. Mace patted its neck consolingly. He knew exactly how it felt whenever Rickard Stark’s gaze met his. He felt like prey, being watched by an apex predator that was preparing to devour him for dinner.

Mace nodded at his herald, who stepped forward and cleared his throat rather loudly. Rickard Stark’s cool grey gaze shifted from Mace to the herald, who promptly burst into a declaration of all the lords present.

Rickard Stark raised a single hand, and the herald faltered, before stopping his elaborate introductions completely. He glanced nervously at Mace who managed to throw a pained smile at the poor man.

The Burnt Lord let the silence hang in the air for an awkward moment before clearing his own throat.

“I know who is present today.” He said in a raspy, pained voice that grated on the ears of all present. Mace winced at the sound and to his horror The Burnt Lord noticed. He titled his head and leant forward on his horse, inspecting Mace even closer. Mace cringed beneath his steely gaze.

“Do you not like my voice Lord Tyrell?” Rickard asked, “Does it grate on your nerves?”

“It’s a fine voice.” Mace managed to reply. “Who accompanies you today?”

“On my right, bearing the banners of my house, is my son and heir, Eddard Stark. On my left is Rodrick.” Rickard replied.

“Rodrick who?” Mace’s mother asked.

“Lady Tyrell.” Rickard greeted as he inclined his head. “I must say when you heard news of your presence at the battlefield I was surprised. From what I understood you preferred to fight your battles behind closed doors and under the cover of darkness.”

Mace’s mother smirked at The Burnt Lord. “Unfortunately not every battle can be solved by honeyed words and gilded palms.”

The Burnt Lord stared back coldly. “No.” he replied shortly. “I’ve found that for Stark’s brute force often works rather well. My own attempts at honeyed words and gilded palms did not work very well.”

“No.” Mace’s mother replied. “They did not.”

Rickard nodded at her before sliding his cold grey gaze back to Mace.

“You did not answer my question.” Mace’s mother said as she stepped closer to Rickard Stark. The man on the White Hart shifted in his saddle, his hand drifting to his sword.

“And you will not get an answer.” Rickard Stark replied without breaking his gaze. “Rodrick is all you will even need to know him by. If you ever find yourself knowing him more personally I doubt you would be much longer within this world.”

“It’s custom and tradition within the south to introduce everyone within your party.” Mace’s mother replied and Mace wished she would shut her mouth.

“It is.” Rickard responded. “It also seems to be the tradition within the south to break the laws of gods and men down here. I’ve had both a king and lord paramount break guest right with me and my kin. Perhaps I should serve to you the plate the other southerners that opposed me served me.”

Mace decided he needed to stop this before it got out of hand. “It’s alright Lord Stark. We have no intention of breaking guest right with you or any of your kin. If you don’t wish to tell us the titles of Rodrick that is also fine. Shall we discuss the terms?”

“Indeed.” Rickard replied as his mother shot him a dirty look. “Did you not receive my letter Lord Tyrell?”

Mace frowned. “I only received one letter form you Lord Stark, at the start of the conflict.”

“What did it say?” Rickard asked and Mace noticed out of the corner of his eye his mother shaking her head frantically.

“It said that…” Mace thought for a minute, trying to recall the words of the Burnt Letter. “That you had a blood debt.”

“And?” Rickard Stark prompted.

“And…” Mace’s heart rate plummeted as he remembered the next words of the letter. At the time he had thrown the letter aside, thinking it a grandiose declaration from one of the weakest lord paramounts of the realm. He would never be able to stand against the might of the Reach he had thought at the time. It seemed that the mummer’s farce that the Stark’s had been playing for years was now done, and they were prepared to reveal their true strength to the realm.

“And that there would be no mercy for those who stood in your way.” Mace finished.

“That there would be no mercy for those who stood in my way.” Rickard Stark repeated as he sat back in his saddle. “I sent a warning to every house in the realm. By your own admission you received the letter I sent and yet you still called you banners and stood in the way of me and my allies. By your own admission you heard my warning and ignored it. Therefore, by your own admission, you deserve no mercy.”

Mace swallowed as the weight of Rickard Stark’s declaration sat in the air. “You need the Reach.” Mace replied. “We have food and gold and men.”

Rickard Stark scoffed. “I have no need for anything you could offer me Lord Tyrell.”

Mace shifted his gaze to his mother, who to his surprise was looking worried for the first time in her life. Clearly she was as nervous as he was, especially if she was showing it.

“Fear not though,” Rickard Stark said before shooting a glance at his son. “It seems not everyone thinks that the best way to legitimise someone’s rule is by killing all those who opposed it. Apparently some people think that it is a greater show of legitimacy to have the previous king’s servants kneeling before you.”

Mace let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and thanked the gods for whatever man had managed to convince Rickard Stark that death wasn’t a good start to a new reign.

“Funny about that isn’t it?” His mother asked. “You’d think that killing everyone would make everyone else love you. Instead it seems to make them hate you even more.”

“I wouldn’t need to kill everyone.” Rickard Stark replied coldly. “You southerners would do it for me.”

“And pray tell how would you do that?” His mother challenged.

Rickard Stark shrugged before turning his gaze to Axell Florent. “I would just need to announce that the Stark’s would support whoever decided to take Highgarden from you.”

Mace’s mother smiled at Rickard Stark with an amused grin. “And here I thought you didn’t like backroom deals and gilded palms.”

“I don’t.” Rickard Stark replied. “It doesn’t mean I don’t have a basic understanding of how it works.”

“Well good for you then.” Mace’s mother replied. “Now what are the terms Robert wishes to offer us?”

“Bend the knee to Robert Baratheon, end the siege of Storm’s End, denounce the remaining Targaryen’s and you will retain all lands, incomes and titles and be spared from the wall or the block.”

Mace’s eyebrows rose. They were very generous terms being offered. Almost immediately he hopped off his horse and went to bend the knee, only to be stopped by his mother’s voice cracking like a whip. “Up!” She cried.

He turned to her incredulously, but she just continued to watch The Burnt Lord suspiciously. “They are generous terms Lord Stark. Some would say too generous.”

“Yes, well as I said not everyone agrees with my views on how to secure someone’s rule.” Rickard said with a tight smile. Rickard Stark’s son, Eddard, leant forward.

“I assure you My Lords, they are the terms that Robert Baratheon and his hand, Jon Arryn, have set out for you. Any delay on your part will only decrease the generosity of your new king and increase the chances of him choosing to take my father’s path to securing his rule.”

“What of Randyll Tarly and his men? Where are they?” His mother asked.

“Most of them are dead.” Rickard Stark said casually.

“Dead?” Mace asked disbelieving. “What do you mean dead?”

“My son rode out with some troops before the battle of the Trident to stop them from reinforcing Rhaegar’s host. He defeated them on the shores of the God’s Eye.”

Mace looked at the plain faced, sombre man in a new light. “How many still live?” Mace asked.

Rickard turned to his son, who shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and switched his gaze to the horizon. “108.” Eddard Stark said hoarsely.

“108!” Mace almost yelled as his lords burst into uproar. “What of the rest of them?!”

“As I said before,” Rickard snarled. “They were killed in combat.”

“What of Randyll Tarly?”

“He was captured alive and is currently being held in a secure location. Upon the war’s conclusion he will be returned to you. Now bend the knee, or I turn around and my troops will march on yours right now.”

Mace dropped to his knees so quickly his head spun. “I hereby pronounce Robert Baratheon, first of his name, as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. House Tyrell and the might of the Reach recognise him as king and renounce the rule of house Targaryen.”

Rickard Stark nodded before raising his hand high in the air. Behind him, his army relaxed, bows lowering, spears rising, men standing out of crouches and horsemen relaxing.

“Come.” Lord Rickard Stark called as he spurred his horse forward towards Storm’s End, “We have a prince of the realm in that castle over there. You can swear your oaths to him properly.”

Mace nodded and remounted his horse, pursuing Rickard Stark as he ambled his way through the Tyrell siege lines, towards the gates of Storm’s End itself, gates that true to their name had weathered every storm of swords that Mace Tyrell had thrown their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have said this yesterday, but I apologize for the delay in updates. I went through a really bad case of writer's block for about a week, but thankfully I manged to pull myself out of it pretty quickly. Happy Easter to you all as well! Thanks for the support you guys give it really means the world to me!


	57. Arthur III: The Fall of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is here. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

The Dragons had fallen.

Rhaegar Targaryen, The Last Dragon, was dead. The news that Arthur had received told a horrible tale of a Burnt Lord, a Silver Prince, a black knife, and a tree that had grown in a matter of minutes, fuelled by blood.

Arthur felt sick when he had first heard what had happened. It only made him hate the Stark’s even more. Eddard Stark had betrayed his sister, and Rickard Stark had killed his best friend. Arthur swore to himself every night before he went to sleep that if he ever got the opportunity he would hunt them down and kill them both.

Ashara still wasn’t talking to him. She blamed him for losing the man she loved. She blamed Rhaegar as well. He wondered if Ashara was happy now with the news of Rhaegar’s death. If there was one thing that Arthur was certain about though was that his sister would be shattered by the news of Elia’s death.

When Arthur had heard himself he had wandered off into the desert, away from the prying eyes of Ser Gerold Hightower, and cried his heart out for the fate of the woman he had loved. He had screamed and cried and raged against all the gods, old and new, and cursed Elia’s mother for the fate they had resigned her kind, beautiful soul to. He had cursed himself for not being there for her, he had cursed Rhaegar and Aerys and Lyanna. He had cursed every name he could think of under the sun, then picked up his cloak, brushed off the dust, wiped away his tears and returned to the tower hiding behind the mask of The Sword of the Morning. Arthur Dayne did not exist when he placed on the white cloak.

The three last loyal kingsguard left sat around a campfire now, pondering the gravity of the words they had received only a few hours ago.

“What now?” Ser Oswell asked. “What do we do now?”

The question hung in the cool night air, as the lifeless barren desert stirred with the midnight winds that blew. Ser Gerold had not spoken since they had received the news, often staring off into the distance with a haunted look. His lips moved wordlessly, though what he was saying Arthur had no idea.

Ser Oswell glanced between the two of them, both of whom continued to ignore him. Ser Oswell rolled his eyes and leaned back against the sand, his bat crested helm, resting next to him.

“I’ve heard the life of a sellsword isn’t that bad.” Oswell began and Arthur cringed. This was not the time for Oswell’s japes. “If that fails us, I’m sure we can take Arthur to Lys. I’ve heard their always in constant need of new pleasure slaves. How much do you reckon women and men would pay for a night with The Sword of the Morning?”

Oswell snorted in amusement at his own joke, while beside Arthur, Ser Gerold had closed his eyes and begun to breathe deeply. “The Sword of the Morning…,” Oswell mused, “Maybe Arthur’s specialty could be a morning poke for his guests? You know, like you get the night with him, and a parting morning quickie in the back rooms? I think we’d be quite successful. Who knows? We might even make enough money to buy our own army and take back the throne!”

Oswell cackled heartily at his own jape, and it seemed to break something within Ser Gerold. The Lord Commander picked up his own helm and pitched it at Oswell as hard as he could. “This is not the time for your japes!” He roared. “Rhaegar is dead! Aerys is dead! Aegon is dead! We failed! What’s so funny about that?”

Oswell glared at him darkly from his place on the floor. The Lord Commander struggled to his feet and began to pace back and forth. “Rhaegar is dead.” Ser Gerold repeated. “None of the great houses will stand behind Viserys. He is too young.”

“What of the girl?” Arthur asked as he glanced at the tower that sat next to them.

Ser Gerold glanced towards it as well, towards the single window that glistened with light from within. A shadow played around the edges, but it disappeared as soon as they turned their gaze to it. “If she has a girl, we kill them both and run. If it’s a boy, we take him, kill her and run.”

Oswell scoffed. “And here I thought the madness died with Aerys. Maybe Jamie had the right idea.”

This time, Oswell had gone too far. Ser Gerold’s face turned scarlet and his right eye twitched, and then as suddenly as his fury had come it disappeared again. As Arthur watched the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard seemed to collapse in on himself. His lips quivered and his eyes glazed over with tears. He slumped to his knees and burst out sobbing.

As Arthur watched the stoic White Bull fell apart. It was an incredibly disconcerting experience.

“We failed them.” Ser Gerold sobbed. “We were sworn to protect them and we failed them all!”

Oswell got to his feet and made his way over to the Lord Commander. He crouched down beside him and placed a consoling hand upon his shoulder. “We did fail.” Oswell stated. “But we honoured our king’s last demand. I intend to stay here and fulfil his last command. If she has a son, I will endeavour to place him on the throne, and if she doesn’t then we can marry her to a great house for an alliance.”

“You don’t understand…” Ser Gerold sobbed. “It’s hopeless anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

“If King’s Landing has fallen, Rickard Stark will begin to search for his daughter. We already know the White Eye and the Stark’s have thrown aside their centuries old feud to bring the Targaryen’s down. Every morning now I’ve seen the same bird.”

“Same bird?” Oswell asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The White Raven!” Gerold cried in horror. “It’s found us. Rickard Stark is on his way!”

“White Raven?” Oswell questioned as he threw Arthur a strange look.

 Arthur knew what Ser Gerold was scared of though. He was transported back, back to the time when his sister had first introduced him to Eddard Stark.

 

_“Arthur!” A voice called, and Arthur turned around to see his sister rushing towards him, a sombre, plain faced man being dragged along by his arm. “I have someone I want you to meet!”_

_“Ashara!” Arthur replied with a grin as he embraced her in a hug. “Who is this?”_

_Ashara stepped back and pulled the plain man closer. He blushed a furious shade of red under Arthur’s gaze, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Arthur,” Ashara began as she smiled at the man, “Meet Eddard Stark. Ned, meed my brother, Arthur Dayne.”_

_The man mumbled a greeting of some sort and Ashara giggled at him, before leaning in to Arthur and whispering loud enough for Ned to hear. “He’s very shy, so be nice.”_

_If it was even possible, this Ned blushed an even deeper shade of red. Arthur’s eyes wandered to his sisters face and around the room, wondering if this was Oberyn’s idea of a funny joke. What the point of it was though Arthur had no idea. Maybe Oberyn was trying to convince Arthur that Ashara liked this man._

_The only ones who were paying any attention to the three of them though, were a tall handsome man with a wild glint in his eyes that had the Stark look, and a young girl next to him who could only have been his sister. Both of them were smirking and laughing with each other, and Arthur got the impression that perhaps he wasn’t the one who was being pranked here._

_He looked at the shy man amusedly. “A pleasure to meet you Lord Eddard.” Arthur said in his smooth, Dornish drawl. “Any friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”_

_Seemingly to his sister’s delight the man got even more embarrassed and stumbled over his words even more. She laughed at the shy man with a glint in her eyes that Arthur had not seen there since she had come to King’s Landing to serve as a lady in waiting to Elia._

_“Ned,” Ashara cried, “Show him your pet! Arthur has always had an interest in birds! I’m sure he will love yours!”_

_“Birds?” Arthur asked. “Do you hawk Lord Eddard?”_

_“No!” Ashara laughed and Arthur wondered how much she had had to drink tonight. “It’s even better than a hawk. The shy man looked at him for a second, before closing his eyes. He opened them a second later and suddenly a White Raven was fluttering above their heads._

_Lord Eddard smiled up at the bird and reached up for it. It alighted on his forearm and Lord Eddard brought it down for Arthur to inspect._

_Arthur stared dumfounded as Ashara laughed at his expression in delight. “What’s its name?”_

_“Solemn.” Lord Eddard replied and Arthur could not help but think it was a fitting name for the companion of a lord such as this one._

Arthur stirred himself from his daydream to search around for the White Raven that Ser Gerold believed he had seen. Ser Oswell stared at him. “Tell him he’s wrong Arthur! He’s just been seeing things!”

“No.” Arthur whispered. “He’s right.”

Arthur scrambled to his feet and pulled his sword from it’s scabbard. They had no way of knowing what monsters lay within the dark.

“What?” Oswell exclaimed.

“He’s right.” Arthur replied. “All the Stark’s have one. Lord Eddard told my sister, and she told me. If Ser Gerold saw one it means that a Stark knows where we are and is not far away.”

Oswell’s head whipped around, searching the darkness for a spot of white to betray the birds presence. “Does any one have a bow?” Oswell asked. “Perhaps we could shoot it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ser Gerold replied. “We need to prepare to fight. Though if they have someone like Brandon Stark with them, we will all most probably die, and most probably very painfully. I saw Brandon crush Llewyn Martell’s head with a clench of his great furred hands.”

“So do we stay then?” Arthur asked. “Or do we flee?”

Ser Gerold got to his feet, resolve shining in his eyes. “We are of the Kingsguard.” He said with a hard edge to his voice. “The Kingsguard do not flee. The Kingsguard fight.”


	58. Elia I: Mount Starpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia arrives at her home for the next few years. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Elia Martell enjoyed a nameless existence she didn’t think she had ever experienced in her entire life. It seemed being dead had its advantages. No more was she Elia Martell, princess of Dorne, wife of Rhaegar, mother of Rhaenys and Aegon. Now she was a nameless face within an inn of other nameless faces, owned by another nameless man who didn’t care for the nameless souls he was hosting apart from the coin he could extract from them. With Elia and her children were four of the strange men that had rescued her on the day of the battle for King’s Landing. Gone was their strange armour and brilliant blades, and instead they were dressed in rough wool. No longer did they look like fighters, instead looking like some more people displaced by the conflict that had torn the realms apart.

They had died Aegon’s brilliant silver hair a dull black, and kept his head wrapped in a shawl of furs that kept his purple eyes in shadows. They were making there way North along the King’s Road, to the Northern fortress they called Mount Starpoint.

The good Davos, well Lord Davos now, had gone with Beron Saltstark to King’s Landing to take the Northern army south to Storm’s End. Elia missed the old man’s gentle nature and Fleabottom accent. He had been a friend to Elia in the dark hours following Rhaegar’s death and the fall of King’s Landing. Rhaenys missed her new friend as well, even more so on the dark nights where she was plaugued with night terrors of giants and piggy eyed men that had come to kill her. She often woke up screaming and crying and could not be consoled back to sleep.

They left the inn on the kingsroad and a few hours later passed into the swampy lands of the Neck. Almost immediantly, Elia noticed her guards relaxing. It must have been nice to return home. Not for the first time since leaving Dorne, Elia missed the sunny deserts of her childhood. She doubted it would be the last time either. Already the bite of the northern weather was affecting Elia. She often huddled beneath her furs shivering. She had no clue how the Stark’s had managed to survive up here for the last 10,000 years. Elia would have frozen to death within a week.

The journey through The Neck was largely uneventful, apart from Rhaenys spotting one of the famed lizard lions lying nearby. They stuck to the Kingsroad and Elia’s guards warned her of the dangers of wandering off into the swamps. It had become the watery grave of many an unwary traveller, a fact that only made Elia clutch Rhaenys and Aegon even closer. The boy had grown tremendously on the journey, and even to her surprise had managed his first steps the other day.

They passed through the Neck and arrived at the gates of Moat Cailin. It was one of the greatest castles Elia had ever seen and she felt for the souls of the Andals that had once tried to break through this mighty fortress of the first men. It had 20 towers and wide, tall walls that forced any attacking army to be bottlenecked within a very small space. It’s battlements were lined with catapults, scorpions and other instruments of war, and Elia could see the glint of steel from where the sentries patrolled.

They passed through the gates without hassle, and Elia was even more amazed at the inside. It had a large hall that could have easily seated a thousand men, almost as big as the one at Harrenhall, and a number of workshops that were manned by a small army of blacksmiths, leatherworkers, fletchers and armourers. One of her guards explained to Elia that the Moat also had direct access to an underground dock that led directly to the Wolf’s Maw. It was the ideal location for a fortress and could hold the North against everything short of dragons themselves. Though from what Elia saw she doubted many dragons would be able to survive the rain of scorpion bolts that the walls were capable of producing.

From Moat Cailin they moved further North, passing through the shadow town of the Moat and then up the Kingsroad and into the heart of the North itself. The roads were cobbled and raised above the ground, and had bronze signs every few leagues and at every crossroads with directions and distances to each of the major cities and holds of the North. It seemed the North had more cities than the South had given them credit for. The biggest city was White Harbour on the Eastern coast, ruled by the Manderly’s. The second largest city of the North was Barrowton, ruled by the Dustin’s. Soon enough Elia arrived at the third city, and definitely the most famed of the three. The Wintercity that surrounded Winterfell, the ancient seat of House Stark.

The Wintercity was truly beautiful. Large houses of stone and wood lined the cobbled streets, and snow fell all around, blanketing the city in a fine white dust that glimmered. Children ran through the streets, laughing and playing, while adults talked on the sides of the street, often haggling over the price of something or another. Elia’s guards showed her the public bathhouses where women and men could bath in the hot water that came from the springs that ran throughout the area. They promised that there was a more private bathhouse within Winterfell itself that she could use, and Elia could not wait to escape the cold.

Godswoods were scattered throughout the city, though Elia was told different ones were used for different purposes. Thankfully Elia did not see the one they used for executions, though she was told it made for a grim sight, as often they left the bones of those executed at the bottom of the tree.

The city also had the imposing presence of three castles that sat within the cities bounds. The first one, the one that lay directly south of Winterfell, which sat at the heart of the city, was called the Wolfhold, and it was where the young heirs of the North were sent for fostering upon their fourth birthday. The sons of the North were raised alongside their future lord it seemed, though the castle was largely empty now she was told. It seemed either those son’s had been killed in King’s Landing with Brandon Stark or they were out fighting to avenge their fallen brothers.

The second castle, the one that lay towards the North-East of Winterfell was called the Snowfort, and was the garrison of the city watch, called the Snow Cloaks for the pristine white cloaks they wore. Elia had seen them patrolling the city in large numbers, wrapped in white cloaks and heavy furs and armoured by ceremonial bronze armour, which while it would never serve in war, would be able to hold against the knives commonly drawn in drunken brawls. They also carried bronze spears and bucklers.

The third castle, the one that lay towards the North-West of Winterfell was called the Greyfort, was spoken of in furtive whispers and hurried glances, and from what Elia could understand it was the home of the North’s famed Warg legions. All but the Lord of Winterfell, his heir and the members of the warg legion were forbidden from entering that castle, and Elia detected that no one wanted too.

They stopped in Winterfell itself for the night, and though Benjen Stark did not greet them in the courtyard, he came to her chambers later to talk to her. She found him to be a very sombre man like his brother, though there was a lightness in him that was not in Eddard Stark. It was clear that the war and the loss of his brother and sister had taken its toll on him. His young face was gaunt and wrinkles lined his eyes. He was courteous though, and spent time with her discussing trivialities and sharing stories of his youth. He also spent time with her children and gifted Rhaenys with a fine fur cloak to keep her warm. Once they were asleep, he directed her to the baths, and she did not see him again for the duration of her stay in the castle.

The baths were exactly what she had needed after such a long journey, warm and spacious, allowing her to rest her weary limbs. Elia had never been the strongest person at the best of times and this journey had been especially taxing on her. She was glad it was nearing its end and could soon rest within the halls of Mount Starpoint. It was to be her home for the next few years at least after all.

The next morning they departed Winterfell, though this time they were no longer playing the nameless farce of travelling peasants. Elia left Winterfell in a gilded carriage with curtains drawn, pulled by four horses and guarded by 20 men wearing the grey cloaks of Winterfell’s personal guard. Her own guards, the ones who had been with her from King’s Landing had also forgone their rough leathers in favour of the brilliant Bronze and Steel armour they had once worn.

The journey to Mount Starpoint from there passed relatively quickly, and Elia spent many of her days sitting in the carriage with Rhaenys and Aegon as the Northern countryside passed by. They passed through the famed Wolfswood, though Elia saw no wolves and soon entered into the Mountains north of the Wolfswood. The mountains were breathtakingly beautiful in their own way, but Elia yearned for the dusty Red Mountains of Dorne.

After about two weeks ride from Winterfell, Elia got her first glimpse of the castle that would be her home for the next few years, though to call it a castle sounded a bit like an under exaggeration.

Mount Starpoint sat in the middle of a ring of smaller mountains, and towered above them. The sides of the mountain was sheer stone and looked to be impassable. At the bottom of the mountain sat the gates that she was told guarded the only route to the top of the Mountain. At the top of the mountain, like a crown upon the head of a king, sat the North’s most secure fortress. Elia could not tell much about it from the distance she was, but her guards swore that she had seen more than most people ever would. This castle she was told, was the North’s most closely guarded secret.

When she finally entered the gates at the bottom of the Mountain, she was amazed by the sheer numbers of men that were still in the North. It seemed that this was the North’s primary military base. It had three levels she was told. The bottom level, at the gates she sat now, was for training the Winter Wolves, the professional soldiers who patrolled the North, manned the gates of Moat Cailin and the Wolf’s Maw, as well as often going North of the wall to break up bands of wildlings that sought to attack the wall.

The second level, which was at a castle half way up the other side of the mountain that Elia had not seen, was where they trained the wargs and the members of the personal guard of house Stark as well as the captains of the Winter Wolves.

The third level, the castle that sat upon the crown of the mountain, was one that no one seemed to know anything of. All she was told was that that would be the level at which she was living. The guards from Winterfell departed, leaving her with the guards who had travelled with her from the start.

The ascent to the top took four days, though Elia never saw the sky once. Instead she was led through a series of passages and hallways that took her to the top. When she finally emerged into the sunlight, the sight took her breath away.

The Castle at the top sat around a grove of weirwoods that had grown within the crater of the mountain. Pools and springs bubbled throughout the grove, and many animals rested beneath the branches or loped around. Wolves, bears, elks, shadowcats, all manner of birds, boars and Elia thought she even saw a unicorn wandering through the glades.

Walking around with them were more of the soldiers that had rescued her from King’s Landing.

“Welcome to Mount Starpoint Princess.” Her guard said and Elia sat down upon the soft, supple grass. One of the shadowcats padded over to her silently, and before she could stop her, Rhaenys had run forward to greet it.

“Kitty!” She cried. “You can be my new Balerion!”

To Elia’s surprise the big cat just nuzzled Rhaeny’s hands, before rolling over for a pat. It’s purr’s reverberated around them and Elia smiled.

It felt good to be safe once more, away from the prying eyes of Mad Kings, overbearing mothers and Lannister murderers. Hopefully Elia could find some semblance of peace in this place after all the years of pain and torment she had gone through.

It seemed strange to find peace here, when this was the lands of the woman her husband had run off with. Regardless Elia would do her best to find the peace, and possibly the love, her life had denied to her and soon she would be able to see Ashara and her child again.

Perhaps one day her Aegon and Ashara’s sons could be raised side by side, as brothers in all but blood. Perhaps one day her Rhaenys could be raised alongside Ashara’s daughters, giving her the sisters that Elia would never be able to.

She was in a new land now, and it was full of new opportunity.

Elia only hoped that her brother’s wouldn’t do anything stupid to avenge her.


	59. Davos V: Arrival in Sunspear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned arrives in Dorne and Davos acts as his fellow envoy. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll apologise in advance for any mistakes you may notice in this chapter. I had to write, edit and publish this all on my phone as I haven’t had access to my computer.

Davos: Sunspear

 

Lord Davos Seaworth of the Isle of Salt, sat next to his liege lord, Lord Beron Saltstark of the Saltsmaw, and guided the warship on which he rode into the small harbour at Planky Town within Dorne. In the distance Davos could see the high spires of Sunspear, the seat of house Martell. They were here to return the bones of Elia Martell and her children, though Davos supposed Lord Stark planned to tell them that he had rescued her.

 

They had left Storm’s End a week ago and sailed south on a brisk westerly wind that had blown them through the stepstones and along the arm of Dorne. Mace Tyrell has bent his knees and his banners before Stannis Baratheon, who to his credit had not floated in victory. Instead he had accepted their surrender with a grudging resentment. It seemed he had wanted them to continue the siege so that Lord Stark would kill them. Stannis the Stubborn indeed.

 

Lord Stark called for Davos and Beron from where he was stood at the prow. Beron handed the tiller to his first mate and together they made their way to the prow of the ship.

 

Gathered there was the select group of men that Lord Stark had chosen back at Storm’s End when he had sent the rest of the army home. The first of them was his son and heir, Lord Eddard, though everyone called him Ned. His son’s companion was a small man of the Crannogs of the Neck, Howland Reed. Lord Stark has also brought 10 of the bronzed men that Davos had learnt were called Weirwood Warriors, as well as their Lord Commander, a gaunt grim man that went by the name of Rodrick Walton. Rodrick Walton was a strange man who rode a tremendous White Hart and kept two wolves at his elbows and an eagle on his shoulder. The man was an enigma Davos was yet to figure out.

 

Lord Stark’s final companions had been the captain of his household guard, Martyn Cassel, and the man he had taken for his squire, the youth Davos had rescued from the Black Cells, Ethan Glover. The boy had changed tremendously from the broken shattered being he had pulled from the dim and grimy cells. His eyes sparkled with a life he did not once have, though Davos detected a hint of darkness within his gaze. Considering what he had been through though Davos was surprised the darkness had not consumed him.

 

If there was a man present that darkness had consumed though it was Lord Stark, though Davos heard he know went by the name of The Burnt Lord. Just thinking of the name sent shivers down Davos’ spine. The man turned his gaze to Davos now and Davos did his best not to quail beneath it’s stormy gaze.

 

“We need to choose who will accompany Ned into Sunspear to speak with Prince Doran.” Lord Stark spoke.

 

Almost immediately the young squire jumped at the opportunity. “Let me go!” He pleaded. “Give me the chance to serve you!”

 

Lord Stark glances at the boy for a long cool moment before shaking his head. “No.” He rasped. “ You are not ready yet.”

 

The boy’s face crumpled and he looked heartbroken for a second, before steeling his gaze and shifting his dark gaze to the horizon. “As you wish.” He muttered shortly, clearly displeased with the decision.

 

“Why of you Martyn?” Lord Stark asked. “Will you accompany Ned?”

Martyn Cassel glanced at the young Lord Eddard apologetically. “With all due respect my lords, my place is by your side Lord Stark, not by your sons. I don’t trust someone to not attempt to harm you while here”

 

Lord Stark looked more bemused than concerned with Martyn’s sentiments, though it was hard to tell with the burn scars that covered his face. “I’ve survived burning by wildfire Martyn. These Dornish vipers don’t scare me.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Martyn replied. “But they scare me.”

 

Lord Stark smiled in his gruesome manner before turning to the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. “What of you Rodrick?”

 

Next to Davos Beron Saltstark stirred. “May I make a suggestion my lord?”

 

“Of course” Lord Stark replied.

 

“You can’t go because they would be just as likely to kill you as let you in. I can’t go for very much the same reasons. We can’t send Rodrick or his men because they are meant to be our secret weapon, meaning we’ve had to keep them out of the public eye. That leaves us with two options, either Ethan, who you’ve already told no, or we can send Lord Davos”

 

“Me?” Davos asked in shock as he looked at Beron incredulously.

 

“Him?” Lord Stark asked as he glanced at Davos. “Why him?”

 

To Davos surprise it wasn’t Beron that jumped to his defence but instead Lord Eddard.

 

“Yes.” Lord Eddard said as he watched Davos with his foggy grey eyes. “Him.”

 

“Why me?” Davos asked, though he noticed that Lord Stark’s queried has stopped and instead he was staring at Davos intently, inspecting him with his cutting grey eyes.

 

“You are a smuggler Lord Davos. You can verify the truth of our story for us. You were with Elia and her children the most out of all of us. You have experience in dealing with lords, while at the same time you understand the other side of the coin. You were born and raised a commoner. You will do well. Consider this your first duty as the Lord of the Isle of Salt.”

 

To Davos’ horror Lord Stark seemed to agree. “Yes.” He said. “You will do very well.”

 

“It’s settled then.” Beron said, “Now if you’ll excuse me I have to steer this ship into the docks.”

 

“It’s not settled!” Davos squeaked as the other lords moved away. “I can’t act as an envoy to the prince of Dorne!”

 

The only lord who had not moved away, Lord Eddard, moved closer and put his hand on Davos’ shoulder. “You’ll do fine.” He said softly. “ You did fine with Stannis.”

 

“Please Lord Eddard!” Davos pleaded, “Send someone else.”

 

Lord Eddard winced. “Please Davos,” he said, “call me Ned. I can’t stand being called Lord Eddard. It makes me feel like I’m about to get scolded for something.”

 

Davos stopped, surprised at the humanity within what Lord Eddard, no Ned, had just said.

“Most other men on board can’t go Lord Davos.” Ned continued, “If Beron Saltstark stepped off this ship he’d most probably be torn apart by a flash mob of angry Dornishmen. The same goes for most other people.”

And then, as if the conversation was finished he patted him on the shoulder and moved to walk away..

 

And so it was that an hour later. Lord Davos Seaworth was walking down the gangplank beside Eddard Stark as they were followed by an honour guard of twelve men bearing the caskets of Elia Martell and her children.

 

The second they stepped onto the dock, Davos noticed the angry eyes that followed their progress. The dock workers had noticed their presence and began to follow them as they made their way up the docks and into Planky Town itself.

 

Their dark eyes glittered in anger, and whispering began to fill the air around them. Lord Eddard walked tall, his hands clasped behind his back, away from the sword on his hip, and his head held high. Ned’s grey eyes stayed locked on the slides of Sunspear, ignoring the crowd gathering around them. Davos followed in his wake, his heart in his mouth as he regarded the hostile flares of those around him.

 

As they passed through the shadow town of Sunspear, the crowd only grew.

From the windows of brothels, whores and their patrons watched as the procession made their way up the street. The blacksmiths stopped working in their shops, and the denizens of the cities slums came out from their hovels.

 

The air was thick with tension, and Davos sensed the underlying anger of these Dornishmen and women. He swallowed nervously but was comforted by Lord Eddard who continued his way down the streets without fear. If he thought that they would be safe, surely nothing would happen?

 

The crowd had grown to a mob though, and more than one man was eyeing them with his hands fingering a dagger on his belt.

 

“Murderers!” Someone near the back cried and it was like the gates of a dam collapsing.

“Child killers!” “Heathens!” “Oathbreakers!” “Traitors!”

 

The words spilled from the lips of the Dornish like the sea crashed against the shore. Somewhere another person threw a stone, and it crashed into Lord Eddard’s temple, causing a shallow cut to appear. Blood streamed down his face, and he stumbled. The crowd jeered angrily and began to throw more things at him.

 

Rotten fruit, stones, animal dung, anything the angry Dornish could get their hands on they threw at the young Northern lord.

 

Eddard Stark walked above them all though, his head held high, even as he was covered in refuse and bleeding from a dozen cuts caused by stones. Aside from the first stumble, Lord Eddard did not waver in his walk to the gates of Sunspear. Behind him Davos and the casket bearers quailed away from the angry Dornish crowds. The crowds were not interested in them though, only the lord that led them.

 

It occurred to Davos that this man could have stopped the stones with a few simple sentences and the revelation of the letter Elia Martell had given him. Lord Eddard did not though, he endured the pain and suffering to protect the lives of a woman and her children that he barely knew from the wrath of his best friend. Davos understood now why Beron Saltstark loves the Stark’s so much and the soldiers of their army had taken Brandon Stark’s death so personally.

 

Davos saw the man that the other realms didn’t see, the one who would willingly put his own honour and health on the line to defend the lives of innocents, and Davos was moved.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd, a person threw a particularly large stone with jagged edges. It sailed through the air and Davos saw it would hit Eddard Stark.

 

He did not deserve this.

 

Davos stepped forward and caught the blow of the stone upon his own shoulder, and grasped Ned Stark by his arm, supporting his weight and shielding his body from as many blows as he could.

 

Ned Stark looked up at him with his grey eyes, and Davos sensed a weariness and sadness within him.

 

Together the two men forged their way through the angry mobs and to the gates of Sunspear itself, where the final obstacle awaited them.

 

Prince Oberyn Martell paced before the gates of Sunspear, a glistening black spear grasped in his hands.

 

As if sensing the Prince’s fury, the crowds backed away and stopped their jeering and throwing. This kill belonged to their Prince. He was the one who had lost a sister.

Prince Oberyn’s dark gaze caught sight of Ned Stark and he drew his lips back in a sneer and twirled his spear above his head.

 

Ned saw the direction of the Prince’s gaze and pushed Davos behind him. “My Lord!” Davos begged, “Let me stay beside you!”

 

“No.” Ned replied lowly, “In this trial I must walk alone.”

 

Ned Stark stepped away from Davos and towards the Prince of Dorne.

 

“Prince Oberyn.” Ned Stark greeted as he inclined his head towards the man they called The Red Viper.

 

“Murderer.” Prince Oberyn just hissed back at him. “I’m going to kill you today.”

Ned Stark sighed sadly and lowered his gaze to his sword belt, where his brilliant white blade sat bound in white leather. He reached down and put a hand on his sword and Oberyn hissed in anticipation. Instead of drawing the blade, Ned detached it from his belt and instead passed it behind him to Davos.

 

Oberyn glared at him. “Do you think I have reservations about killing a defenceless man?” He hissed. “My sister was defenceless too. Still your dogs killed her.”

 

Ned Stark shook his head. “None of my men had a hand in her murder.”

 

“I DON’T CARE!!” Oberyn roared. “My sister is dead! Wether she died at your hands or the Lannister’s dogs I don’t care! Once I’ve killed you I’ll kill them too!”

 

“Please Prince Oberyn,” Lord Eddard pleaded. “I am not interested in fighting you and I am tired of war.”

 

“Maybe your not.” Prince Oberyn replied. “But I am.”

 

With that he rushed forward, his spear hanging low on the ground. Davos notes a slick purple substance thinly coated the head. This was not good.

 

Your sisters alive! Davos wanted to shout, but he didn’t because it wasn’t his secret to tell. It wouldn’t be him who would be branded a traitor, him who would be executed for treason.

Ned Stark backed away from the charging viper, who followed him and began jabbing at him with his spear.

 

“Please Prince Oberyn.” Ned begged, “I need to speak with your brother. Can you let me pass?”

 

“No!” Oberyn roared. “You have killed a daughter of Dorne! You have murdered innocent children! Your monster of a brother killed my uncle! You have dishonoured Ashara Dayne! I will end you for your crimes against Dorne and her people!”

 

Oberyn’s declaration was met with a loud cheer from the onlooking crowd, though Davos noticed Oberyn’s final declaration, the one regarding the lady Ashara Dayne, has stirred something within the young lord. Davos could sense it in his gaze, his foggy grey eyes had sharpened into a cutting grey gaze that reminded Davos of Lord Stark.

 

Ned Stark stepped forward, his eyes glinting dangerously. “I have not dishonoured Ashara Dayne.” He said lowly.

 

“You dishonoured her!” Oberyn roared. “You made promises to her that you did not keep!”

 

Ned Stark’s eyes flared. “I did no such thing.”

 

“You promised to marry her and instead you married another!”

 

“I did no such thing!” Ned roared at the prince, and for the first time since Davos had seen Oberyn, the man looked thrown. Then his lips curled back into a snarl, and his spear jabbed at Ned Stark again. “I don’t care!” He snarled, “You killed my sister. Now you must die!”

With that he rushed forward and began to rapidly jab and stab at Ned who was desperately trying to avoid the blows.

 

The crowd jeered as the shaft of Oberyn’s spear caught Ned in the stomach and the Northern lord fell to the ground winded. Davos went to rush forward to save Ned Stark, but was pulled back by the arms of a Dornish man.

 

Prince Oberyn hovered over Lord Eddard’s body and he raised his spear high in the air preparing to kill him when he was stopped by a commanding cry from the gates of Sunspear.

 

“Stop this madness at once Oberyn!” Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne cried as he descended the steps of Sunspear. Oberyn paused his spear hovering above Ned Stark’s head. He glared at his brother before yelling in frustration and hurling his spear to the side. He stormed off into Sunspear, his dark gaze glaring at Ned murderously as he walked away.

 

“Lord Stark.” Doran Martell greeted. “I am sorry for the reception you received. It is not becoming of Dornish people. I apologise on behalf of Dorne.”

 

Ned Stark struggled to his feet and shook his head. “They were right to be angry Prince Doran.”

 

Doran nodded and glanced at the men bearing the caskets. “Yes they were. Come inside and we shall get you cleaned up and have a talk.”


	60. Eddard XVI: Dining with Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned meets with Doran. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Ned splashed his face with the cool water, washing away the blood and grime of his encounter with Prince Oberyn and the citizens of Planky Town. He had already exchanged his dirtied doublet for one of the flowing robes favoured by the Dornish. Across the other side of the room, Davos Seaworth inspected his own robes closely.

“These are the finest clothes I’ve ever worn.” He muttered as he lifted up his silk-clad arms.

“Well don’t get used to silk.” Ned replied. “It’s not suitable for your new castle.”

“What is suitable for lord’s in the North?” Davos asked with a querying glance.

“Wools, furs and leathers.” Ned replied. “Anything else and you’d be likely to freeze to death.”

“Good.” Davos replied. “Anything else and I think my father would be turning over in his grave.”

Ned smiled at the smuggler. “Was your father a practical man?”

“The most practical man I’d ever met. Didn’t think anything had a point unless it had purpose.”

“He sounds like a Northman.” Ned replied with a wry grin.

The two men were interrupted from the musings by a knock upon the door to their chambers. Ned strapped his sword to his belt, and walked over to the door, opening it to reveal a Dornish servant standing before him.

“Lord Eddard. Lord Seaworth.” The servant greeted. “Prince Doran requests your presence.”

Ned nodded and turned to Davos, who strapped his ever present knife to his belt and followed Ned out the door. The servant led them through the halls of Sunspear and out onto a balcony overlooking the bay. Prince Doran waited for them there, a table of Dornish dishes compiled before him.

“Lord Eddard.” Prince Doran greeted as he rose from his chair upon their arrival. “Lord Seaworth.”

“Prince Doran.” Both men replied as they bowed their heads in deference.

“Please,” Prince Doran said as he resumed his seat. “Have a seat. Share with me my midday meal.”

“Thank you my Prince.” Ned said as he took his own seat. Davos sat down next to him, clearly unsure of what to do in such distinguished company. The servants moved about them and filled their goblets with wine, and their plates with heaping’s of the Dornish dishes present.

“I hear you’ve recently acquired some new titles, Lord Seaworth. What did you do to deserve such an honour?”

Next to Ned Davos shifted in his seat, squirming under the Prince’s gaze. “I just smuggled some men and supplies into Storm’s End.”

“Yes.” Doran said as he sipped from his wine. “My contacts did tell me that you were once a smuggler. Quite a famous one too if I’m correct?”

Davos’ face flushed scarlet. “Yes.” He replied tersely. “I was famous within certain circles.”

“Whatever did you do to deserve such fame?” Doran asked as he frowned into his plate of food. “My contacts are notoriously hard to impress, yet somehow they were impressed with you. They even went as far as to ask if they could come and talk to you.”

“Oh.” Davos replied looking a bit surprised, before glancing fearfully at Ned. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not a smuggler anymore.”

Ned smiled at the smuggler, before switching his gaze back to the Prince. “He managed to get through the Wolf’s Maw without a pilot.”

Doran’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well,” He said with a wry grin. “That is a rather impressive feat. I can see why they wanted to talk to you.”

Davos burrowed deep into his seat, clearly embarrassed by the attention and Ned decided to save him from further self-embarrassment. “Davos is a lord now, and has put his past activities behind him. Once we’ve left Dorne we’ll be returning home to show Davos his new holdings.”

Doran’s wry grin melted off his face and turned into a bitter snarl. “And what have you come to Dorne for Lord Eddard?”

Ned swallowed nervously. “To return the bones of your sister and her children.”

“Is that all?”

Ned shook his head. “I have come as a representative of house Stark, not of the Iron Throne. I have come to apologise for what happened to your sister and her children.”

“Why are you apologising?” Prince Doran asked as he narrowed his eyes at Ned. “Are you guilty of her murder as my brother believes?”

Ned shook his head, before throwing a glance to the servants gathered around the room. Doran saw his gaze and smiled at him. “Don’t worry about what you say. These servants are loyal to me. What I say will not pass beyond these walls.”

Ned closed his eyes and when he reopened his eyes his White Raven, Solemn, was sitting on the table before him. Doran’s eye’s narrowed as he saw the white bird. “Is this some of your Northern magic?” He hissed. “The same magic that killed my uncle.”

The bird flitted around the room and peered into every nook and cranny. It tapped with its beak on the wall a few times, but returned to Ned and squawked it’s approval.

“What did it just do?” Doran asked with narrowed eyes.

“Excuse Solemn’s actions.” Ned replied as he reached into his doublet. “With the war at an end, the White Eye will resume its illegal activities soon, if it has not already. One of the lesser known things that the White Eye sells is information. He was just checking for animals that could be used to listen in our conversation.”

Doran’s eyes widened in surprise. Ned pulled the letter from his inner pocket and extended it across the table to Doran. “A letter from my father.” Ned explained as Doran took the letter from his grasp.

Doran broke the plain grey wax seal and began to read. Ned could tell exactly when he figured out who it was truly from, because his face drained of colour and his eyes flitted back to meet’s Ned gaze. He swallowed and closed the letter.

He clapped his hands and almost immediately, the room emptied of the servants that had been there to see to their needs. The only one who stayed behind was a giant of man, who had a large poleaxe strapped to his back.

Doran rose to his feet and wandered to the balcony, staring out at the ship that sat in the bay. “Is she on there?” Doran asked in a small voice.

“There is still someone here.” Ned said in a hurry.

“Don’t worry about Areo.” Doran replied. “He would give his life for mine. Is she on there?”

“No.” Ned replied after a long glace at Areo. “She’s on her way North, if not there already. We’ll keep her there until its safe.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

Doran whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury. “How am I meant to know if this is the truth or not then? How do I know this is not some lie?”

“I’m not lying Prince Doran. Davos here rescued Elia from the Red Keep himself and sailed her out of King’s Landing upon his own boat.”

“Did you?” Doran challenged. “Or are you spinning a lie for your new liege lords?”

“I did My Prince.” Davos replied in his thick flea bottom accent. “I took her and her daughter and son into my boat and sailed them out into the Bay. Rhaenys asked me to be her friend. I taught her how to tie knots and she told me all about her kitten Balerion.”

“Balerion…” Doran murmured. He turned around and picked the letter back up, before reading through it again. He looked to Ned who held his gaze. “It’s really true? You saved her?”

“I did.” Ned replied.

“Why?” Doran asked with a frown. “Why save her?”

“Because it was the honourable thing to do. Because I swore to protect her, even from my own father if I needed too.”

Doran’s eyes covered with a film of tears. “Why?”

Ned shrugged. “Ashara asked.” He admitted. “I could never say no to Ashara.”

Doran turned away. “Who knows?” He asked.

“Me, you, Davos, my father, Beron Saltstark and a few more trusted men.”

“Trusted men?” Doran queried. “Will they betray her?”

“No.” Ned replied. “They are like your Areo in a way. Loyal only to one man.”

“And that one man?”

“My father.”

“And when he dies?”

“Me.”

Doran nodded as if satisfied. “Beron Saltstark? The one who the Lannister’s accused of sinking the ship she was on?”

“Yes.” Ned snarled. “The very one who was responsible for saving your sister is accused of killing her. It wears on him more than he lets on.”

“Extend to him my most sincere thanks.”

“I will.”

Doran nodded. “Who am I allowed to tell?”

“No one.” Ned replied. “The more people that know the more danger she is in.”

“What about Oberyn?” Doran asked, “He will want to know.”

“No!” Ned replied forcefully. “Oberyn’s hate is the perfect cover. No one will believe she still lives if Oberyn openly despise me and my men. If he is not then the idea she still lives is more plausible.”

Doran’s face twisted and he was clearly torn. “He will do as I ask. He can act when he needs too.”

Ned shook his head regretfully. “If this is to work it has to be genuine, not an act.”

Doran still looked torn on the matter and Ned knew he had to seal the deal or Elia’s existence would be uncovered. “I promise when the time comes I will return Elia to you. I will also allow her children to foster here for a year or two when they are older, though they will foster separately. As long as you keep the truth to yourself they will be fine.”

Doran still looked torn, but nodded his head.

“Good.” Ned said as he lifted his cup of wine to his lips. “But be warned Prince Doran. If I hear any rumblings of Elia’s survival, or Dorne raising up for Viserys, or Aegon, or Rhaenys, I will not hesitate to kill them.”

Doran looked at him surprised. “You wouldn’t kill them. You saved them.”

“Your right.” Ned acknowledged. “I would have problems killing them. My father however would have no such reservations.”

Doran swallowed nervously. It seemed The Burnt Lord’s reputation extended even to the deserts of Dorne. “Dorne will not rise again.” He confirmed, “But when will I see my sister again?”

“When the realm is ready to know the truth.”

“What if that may never be?”

“Then I will organise for her to visit you somewhere. In one of the Free Cities perhaps. Or within the Stepstones. Wherever you can meet safely.”

“I will hold you to your word Lord Stark.”

“I will uphold it.”

“Good.” Doran replied. “Where are you off to now?”

Ned grimaced. “I’m off to marry the mother of my children and then find my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only ten more chapters to go in the Robert's Rebellion arc!


	61. Ashara VI: Tears for Fears, Fears to Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Ashara finally meet again. Please, tell me how I did. I’m really unsure about this chapter and wanted to get it right. If you feel like it’s no good, let me know so I can fix it.

They said Ashara was like a ghost nowadays, a shell of her former self. They thought she didn’t hear, but she heard. Servants never were very good at keeping secrets. They blamed it on the pregnancy, but Ashara knew better.

Her waxy skin and hollow eyes was not the fault of the babe that grew within her. It was not because of the baby that servants whispered she would lose, but instead for the life she had lost.

Elia was dead. Ned had married another. Arthur had betrayed her.

The three most important people in her life were gone.

Her best friend. Her lover. Her brother.

They said that Elia had been raped before she was killed. They said Ned had killed her killer with his own arm. Ned had failed in all his promises to her. She wondered how she had ever read him so wrong?

No, she surmised, it was not him she had read wrong. It was the man that entire realm had read wrong.

Rickard Stark.

The Burnt Lord.

He was one who had sworn to kill Elia. If there was anything Ashara knew, Rickard Stark always fulfilled his oaths. He always paid his debts. Rhaegar and Aerys has learnt that the hard way. So it seemed had Elia. Aerys and Rhaegar has deserved their fates though. Elia was an innocent woman who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ashara’s heart almost burst from pain when she thought of the fates of Rhaenys and Aegon.

They said that Aegon had had his head crushed against a wall. They said Rhaenys’ little chest had been crushed in by Amory Lorch’s meaty hands. They said many things.

Last Ashara had heard Ned was in Sunspear, meeting with Prince Doran and returning the bodies of Elia and her children.

Ashara knew where he would be coming next.

Soon her gaze would meet his foggy grey one. Soon she would feel his arms again, though now with the knowledge that their warmth would never belong to her.

Ashara was at the top of the Palestone tower when she first saw the sail upon the horizon. The ship was clearly Northern, of a swift but strong design. The most telling sign was the running Grey Direwolf that flew from the mast’s head.

Ned was near.

Ashara’s stomach clenched in anticipation and she felt the blood rush to her face. Her heart rate picked up as she watched the sail draw closer and closer.

She almost snarled when she saw the ship Ned had chosen to bring him here.

The Salty Wolf.

A ship that Ashara had last seen when she was crossing The Bite in what seemed like another lifetime.

Beron Saltstark. If Elia had not died at Lannister hands it was this man who had killed her. This man knew of his liege lord’s wishes, had been there on the day Rickard Stark has sworn to kill her.

Perhaps the man had sought his lords favour and decided to kill Elia as they fled. Ned had spoken highly of him though.

Had she read Ned so wrong?

No her heart told her, but her head sung a different song.

A glance at her wrist ensured her her that the gods agreed with her heart and not her head.

Her mother had raised Ashara in the light of the seven, but she no longer believed in them. Instead she kept her faith in the Old Gods, the gods of Ned and the North.

When Ashara was beside the Weirwood tree within Starfall’s godswood, she felt closer to the father of her child. The smell of Ned seemed to hang in the air, a smell of pine and snow and woodsmoke. When the trees branches moved they seemed to speak with Ned’s voice.

On some days Ashara could not bear to be amongst the trees for her heart hurt to much. On most days though she spent entire days lost amongst the boughs. It was the last place in the world where she felt truly at peace. Everywhere else just brought out the demons within her own mind, demons that were growing disturbingly loud.

A knock sounded on the door to the chambers and Ashara lifted her haunted gaze to the door. “Come in.” She called, and the door opened to reveal her sister Allyria.

Ashara smiled weakly at her. “Hello.” She said as she struggled to her feet with her swollen belly.

“The guards say Lord Stark will be here within the hour.” Allyria said as she skipped into the room. “He also said one of has to go since Papa and Aron aren’t here.”

Ashara nodded weakly. “I’ll go.” She said.

Allyria nodded and rushed over to the window where she could see the incoming ship. It had just pulled into the docks, and men were throwing ropes over the side and mooring the boat. Ashara couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw Ned’s solemn figure standing at the prow, looking upwards towards the castle.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Gods, he was really here. He was here. He was coming. Ashara drew herself together and stepped away from the window.

“Get the servants to draw a bath for me and a dress. Preferably one of purple.” Ashara ordered and Allyria nodded and skipped away to follow her bidding.

Gods Ned mightn’t be her’s anymore, but she would not let it show how much it had upset her. She was Dornish for goodness’s sake. The Dornish had endured Dragons, Ashara was sure she could endure one Quiet Wolf.

Though that was not what they called him anymore. Ned was now The Stranger’s Wolf. Ned had defeated Randyll Tarly in battle when he was outnumbered more than six-to-one apparently.

The servants entered her room with a tub of steaming water infused with lavender oils. They set it in front of the hearth and Ashara stripped of her clothes and lowered herself into it. The hot waters soothed Ashara’s aching back and feet, though did little to help her churning stomach or pounding heart.

The servants moved about and washed Ashara with wet sponges, wiping away the grime and sweat of childbearing. When she was scrubbed so well her pink skin glowed, Ashara rose from her bath and dried herself off. Her handmaidens picked her out a flowing silk and satin dress of purple embroided with silver stars, and Ashara put it on. When she was ready, she descended the staircase of the Palestone tower, and out into the courtyard where much of the household was gathered.

Many stood nervously, hearing tales of Northmen that turned into wolves and feasted on the flesh of their enemies.

Ashara thought of brave, bold and wild Brandon Stark and couldn’t help but think that the statements were truer than they had ever been before.

Allyria took her place next to Ashara and clutched her hand. Ashara smiled down at the beautiful girl and patted her head with her free hand.

The guards on the walls blew a horn, and the gates of Starfall opened.

Ned was one of the first ones through, and Ashara trembled as his grey eyes searched the courtyard for her.

Their eyes met and Ned’s face burst into a wide grin, a grin that brought back memories of a lapping lake and burned towers. Of promises whispered in the dead of night and kisses stolen behind trees. Of a screaming Weirwood and a wooden bracelet that encircled her wrist even now.

She smiled back, though she knew the smile never reached her eyes. She just hoped Ned would not be able to tell.

Damn him though, damn and his foggy grey eyes that cut through her soul and made her want to burst into tears. She steeled her spine and refused to crack though.

From Ned’s expression though, he knew something was wrong. His smile fell away and instead he moved his gaze from her eyes to take in the rest of her body. His eyes widened in horror as he took in her gaunt cheeks, pale skin and swollen belly.

Then without warning the damned man dismounted his horse and rushed across to her.

“Ashara…” He seemed to breathe and sob all at once as he embraced her in a hug.

Ashara wanted nothing more than to return the hug but he wasn’t hers to hug anymore and her arms stayed at her side, refusing to respond to her wishes to pull him into her own arms.

“Ashara?” Ned asked with a querying look as he pulled back. “What’s wrong?”

His smell was invading her sense, breaking down the chains she had placed upon her own heart. She had to do something, anything. Say something her mind screamed.

“Hello Ned.” She managed to murmur, but her gaze refused to meet his.

“Ashara?” He asked again. “Look at me.”

As he had done once though in the Mountains of the Moon though she turned her gaze to the skies. And as she had done once in the Mountains of the Moon, Ned pulled her face down to meet his. “Ashara.” He whispered. “I love you.”

Once those words were all Ashara would have wanted to hear. Now though she couldn’t hear them without seeing the ghosts of her past running before her mind’s eye. Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon. She couldn’t take this anymore, she had to get away. Away from the man who had broken her heart so badly.

Without thinking she turned and ran, her feet aching horribly and the babe within her stomach kicking fiercely. “It’s alright.” She whispered as she rubbed her hands over the swell soothingly. “It’s alright.”

Her eyes were blinded tears that yearned to break free. Ashara was Dornish though and stronger than the Quiet Wolf that she had left far behind. Her feet wandered and where they took her she did not know, nor care.

She just had to get away.

When her eyes cleared she wanted to burst into another round of sobbing.

Her feet had dragged her before the Heart tree of Starfall. Its carven face bore into her soul, and Ashara was both comforted and torn by its soul searching gaze.

She lowered herself to the ground and rested her aching feet once more.

She closed her eyes and leant her forehead into the tree. Unbidden, a series of visions sprung into her mind.

_Ned and her sitting on the shores of the God’s Eye, laughing and sharing a bottle of wine Ashara pilfered from the feast._

_Ned and her crouched on a boat as the waves tossed it to and fro._

_Ned thrown in a cell by men wearing the colours of house Tully. Another man entered the cell, his wild red hair and beard surrounding her. “You really love her don’t you?” He asked and Ned stood up, his eyes narrowed. “More than anything on this earth.” He replied._

_Ned standing on the shores of the God’s Eye once more, though this time she wasn’t there. Instead of the wools and furs he had once been clothed in, he was now covered in grey armour and wielded a brilliant white blade like Arthurs, though it was covered in blood. A man stood next to Ned, his bronze armour glinting in the light._

_Rickard Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, at the end of Rhaegar’s life. Blood was pouring from a hole in his chest, yet he continued to whisper the same words over and over again. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon.”_

_Ned fighting his way through the streets of King’s Landing, his sword falling against Targaryen and Lannister guard alike. He was rushing up the steps of a tower now, one that Ashara recognised. This was the corridor that led to Elia’s chambers. The guards were already dead, their bodies mangled and thrown aside._

_Ned kneeling before a heart tree. “Keep her safe.” He prayed. “Keep her safe wherever she may be.”_

Ashara felt a hand upon her shoulder and as suddenly as they began the visions stopped. She turned her head to see Ned standing behind her, his worry etched into the lines of his face.

“Ashara.” He pleaded. “Speak to me. What’s wrong?”

Ashara’s resolve broke with the reminder of what she had lost and she burst into sobs. “What’s wrong?” She sobbed. “You promised to marry me! We knelt before the gods and demanded a betrothal and you broke it!”

Ned stepped back, looking genuinely surprised. “You believed them?” he asked.

“Believed them?” She scoffed, her sadness being swept away by a tide of anger. She furiously wiped away her tears. “Believed that you married another? Of course I did! We both knew Hoster Tully’s price for his armies! He delivered his end of the bargain so clearly you must have too.”

To Ashara’s fury, a smile played across Ned’s features before he began to chuckle.

She slapped him hard. “Don’t laugh!” She hissed at him, though this only served to make him more amused.

So she slapped him again. Ned stepped back from her this time, outside of the range of her flailing palms and rubbed his reddening cheek. “I guess I deserved those.” Ned admitted.

“Of course you did!” Ashara almost screamed. “You deserve much more than that too!”

Ned stopped smiling and stepped back towards her, catching her wrists so she couldn’t slap him again. “Jon was right.” Ned said and Ashara felt the heat rush to her cheeks as those words brought back the memory of another night with Ned. “I do have a duty.” Ned said as he lifted his arm.

His sleeve fell away to reveal a white Weirwood bracelet still attached. Ashara frowned confused. “Why did you keep it?” She asked.

“Did you not keep yours?” Ned asked, and he looked genuinely hurt.

Ashara looked away, furious at herself for not throwing hers away. “No.” She finally admitted. “I kept mine too.”

“Well then,” Ned said with a shaky grin, “I believe we can finally get married.”

Ashara’s eyebrows rose on her head. “I wasn’t aware the gods allowed for men to marry more than one woman. Last I checked you weren’t a Targaryen.”

Ned rolled his eyes at her. “Ashara.” He said a little exasperated, “I didn’t marry Catelyn Tully.”

Ashara felt her heart stop. The weight of Ned’s declaration hung in the air for a long moment. “You didn’t?” Ashara finally managed to respond.

“No.” Ned replied as he took her face in his hands. “I promised to marry you. I intend to keep that promise.”

Ashara’s mouth fell open, and she wasn’t sure how to feel. Her skin tingled and seemed to be running red hot one second, and freezing cold the next. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and Ned’s touch had become like heaven on earth. She breathed out once, and then she burst into sobs and pulled Ned into her arms.

Their lips crashed together, and Ashara savoured the feel of Ned’s skin on hers. She was crying and laughing at the same time, her head and heart feeling a lightness they hadn’t felt since Arthur had imparted the news that Ned had married another.

For the first time in months, the demons within her own head were silent.

After a moment Ashara realised the burning within her chest was not actually a breaking heart being mended, but instead a desperate need to breathe.

They pulled apart, and Ashara sucked in great lungful’s of fresh air. Life seemed so different now! The sun was brighter, the birds were louder and the Heart Tree’s gaze seemed more comforting than ever. Tear’s sprung to her eyes as she watched Ned smile down at her.

Ned’s fingers traced over her cheeks and wiped away her tears with the pads of his fingers. “Don’t cry.” He whispered as he pulled her even closer. “Soon this nightmare will be over.”

At the mention of a nightmare, Ashara’s thoughts were turned to the nightmare that must have been the final moments of Elia’s life. Suddenly feeling so happy felt so wrong. She pulled away from Ned’s grasp and stepped back to the tree.

“Ashara?” Ned asked confused. “What’s wrong now?”

“Tell me the truth Ned.” She demanded. “What happened to Elia? Did she die on your father’s orders?”

Ned glanced around, inspecting the godswood, making sure no one else was around. He stepped towards her and drew her into another hug, before lowering his mouth next to her ear. He used her raven hair to cover his mouth, so none would see what he was doing. The touch of his lips still excited her, but Ashara had a duty to Elia to fulfil, and a duty to Dorne to find out the truth.

“Ned.” She warned as she tried to pull away, but Ned’s iron grip trapped her against the tree.

“Elia lives.” He whispered in her ear. “She’s in the North now with Rhaenys and Aegon. The first thing we’ll do when we get home is visit her.”

Ashara looked up into his eyes, not sure whether to believe him. “Do you promise?” She asked, remembering this was the man that had fought his way across the realm to marry her because he had promised.

“I promise.” He replied as he smiled down at her.

“Good.” She replied. “Then we will speak no more of this until we are home.”

She linked her arm with Ned and together they began to walk from the godswood. ‘For now though,” Ashara continued, “You must tell me how the Quiet Wolf became the Stranger’s Wolf.”

To Ashara’s delight, Ned blushed a deep shade of red, looking all the more like the shy man she had met in the shadows of the towers of Harrenhall, before the smiles had died and before the world had gone to hell.

Ashara’s hell though had turned into the seven heavens itself. The only thing she needed now was her brother back by her side and all would be right within the world once more.


	62. Eddard XVII: Before the Eyes of Gods and Men.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned gets married. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is late! It should have been up last night but my internet has crashed! Forgive me please, and I’ll try to put a second one up later tonight!

Eddard Stark has been shocked when he had first laid his eyes upon Ashara Dayne. Her eyes, once vibrant and bright and laughing, has been dull and lifeless. Her once rosy skin had become pale, and her luscious smile had become strained.

Ned hadn’t thought for one second that Ashara would have believed the rumours regarding him, even after Elia Martell told him of their existence. It seemed the rumours had broken the spirit of the woman who had followed him through the Mountains of the Moon and across the stormy waters of The Bite.

The most shocking, yet uplifting, news that Ned had verified was that he would soon be a father.

Ashara told him that the babe would be arriving any day now, within the moonturn.

A hand ran through Ned’s hair, and he turned his head to see Ashara’s beautiful face smiling down at him.

In the days since Ned’s arrival, Ashara has put on some of the weight she had lost and colour had returned to her cheeks. The greatest change though was within her eyes. Once more they were the eyes of the laughing maid of Harrenhall, who had agreed to dance with a shy boy, who’s brother had to ask for a dance for him.

Under Ashara’s gaze once more, Ned felt like that young boy once more, filled with hopes and dreams for the future, and not the war weary and battle hardened man he had become in his furore leading armies through the South.

“What are you thinking about my love?” Ashara asked as she lowered herself onto the bench next to him.

“You.” Ned replied as he smiled at her softly.

“Me?” Ashara asked, “Whatever where you thinking about me for?”

“I missed you.” Ned replied. Ashara smiles up at him and pressed a kiss to the stubble that lined his jaw. “I missed you too.” She said as she curled into his arms.

Ned pulled her to him and ran his hands over the swell over her stomach. He could feel the babe within moving and Ashara caught his hands within hers. “Can you feel it?” She whispered, almost reverently.

“Aye.” Ned replied thickly, his voice becoming choked with emotion. “What will we name it?”

“Shhh.” Ashara replied as she pressed a finger to his lips.

He looked down at her, but her purple eyes were closed. The Dornish sun streamed in the windows, alighting on Ashara’s face and providing a halo of sunlight upon the crown of her head.

Not for the first time Ned was struck dumb by the sheer beauty of the woman he had fallen in love with. Perhaps even more extraordinary was the fact that she had also fallen in love with him. It was the sort of story that naive maidens all over the seven kingdoms swooned over, stories like Florian and Jonquil. Perhaps in the future Ned’s story would be remembered the same, and swooned over similarly.

Ned presses his lips to the crown of her head. “I love you.” He whispered.

“I love you too.” She whispered back.

They sat there, together, for the next hour when they were interrupted by someone storming into the room. Ned turned his head to see little Allyria Dayne staring him down.

“What are you doing?” She hissed at him as her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see your lady wife before you get married on your wedding day?”

Ned nudged Ashara, but she didn’t respond. To Ned’s amusement she had fallen asleep in his arms.

“No I didn’t.” Ned replied after he realised he was getting no help from Ashara.

Allyria just scowled at him. “Get out then!” She snapped. “We need to get her ready!”

Ned bowed his head at the little lady. “At once My Lady.”

Ned swung his feet off the bench, and gently extricated Ashara from his arms. His moving woke her though and her purple eyes fluttered open. “Ned?” She murmured sleepily. “Don’t leave me...”

“I’m not.” Ned whispered back. “I’ll see you soon. For now though your sister is demanding I leave.”

Ashara’s hands stretched up and grabbed at his face. “Don’t leave me!” She insisted as her sleepy eyes blinked away the sleep in the corners. Ned smiles down at her and kissed her grasping hands. “I’ll see you tonight.” He promised as he let her go and backed away.

Ashara smiled back at him as she realised what was happening tonight. “Tonight.” She agreed before getting to her feet as well. She hurried after him and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips, before giggling at his dumbfounded expression.

They were interrupted by Allyria’s huffing. “Go away!” She said as she grabbed Ned’s hand and began to drag him across the room towards the doorway. She pushed Ned out of the room and slammed the door on his face. From within the rooms he heard Ashara laughing at Allyria’s actions. Ned smiled at the sound, before turning away and wandering down the hall towards his own rooms.

Ned hadn’t realised how much he had missed Ashara until he had seen her again. Her smile, and her laugh, would make Ned’s heart soar, and her sharp and teasing tongue drove Ned insane but he loved it. He loved everything about the woman he had fought his way across the realm for, right down to the freckle behind her earlobe.

Tonight he would finally be marrying her. Tonight would be the culmination of a nine month campaign from Moat Cailin to Riverrun to The Trident. From King’s Landing to Storm’s End to Sunspear. It all led to Starfall, where the love of his life waited.

Thinking of Riverrun though brought back memories of the woman his brother had dishonoured. Benjen’s White Raven had arrived from Winterfell a few days ago bearing the news that Elia had arrived in the North safely and more concerning was that Catelyn Tully was having difficulty in her childbirth, most probably due to the travel she went through early in her pregnancy.The baby was upside down it seemed and was very late. It did not bode well for mother or child, and only made Ned feel more horrible.

None of the Tully children had deserved what had happened to them. All of them, with the exception of Lysa, had treated him kindly and with sympathy. Ned had no doubt that Catelyn would have made a wonderful Lady, but not Ned’s lady.

Brynden Tully though, Ned had great admiration and respect for. It was not Everyman that swore to free his potential enemy for the sake of love.

Ned arrived in his quarters and found Howland Reed waiting for him. Howland had been by Ned’s side for the entire duration of the war, from the day that Ned had left Moat Cailin. He had been his most faithful and constant companion, being only absent from Ned’s side during the Battle of God’s Eye.

“Is it all ready for tonight?” Ned asked, and Howland nodded. “I will oversee the ceremony, and Ashara’s father shall give her away.”

Ashara’s father had arrived in Starfall a day after Ned and his party had arrived. He had been stationed at Vultures Roost for the duration of the war, while his son, Aron, had led the Dayne levies North to the Trident. Aron Dayne would also be home soon, as Ned had given the orders for him and his men to be released.

Ned’s father was focusing his energy on what would most probably be the final battle of the war, the raid on the tower where Lyanna was being kept.

Ned, Howland and those chosen to accompany him had spent countless nights debating on how to go about the raid. It had become quite heated at some stages, although they figured out a plan they were all relatively happy with.

Howland got to his feet as his father entered the room carrying a cloak of white and grey. His marriage cloak, the one he would be draping over Ashara’s shoulders tonight.

“Here.” His father said as he held the cloak out, “I had this in my luggage just in case something like this happened.”

“Thank you.” Ned said as he took the fur lined cloak from his father’s grasp. The cloak was made of the finest furs and lightest silks that could be found in Westeros. His father must have spent a fortune on its making.

His father nodded once as though satisfied before turning away again. “I’ll see you tonight” he said gruffly as he left the room.

The rest of the day went by in a flash, and before Ned knew it Howland was leading him through the godswood towards the heart tree.

Ned’s breath was taken away when he saw what the Dayne servants had strung together in such a short amount of time.

Lanterns were hung from the branches of the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, casting the entire area in light. Purple, white and grey streamers had been strewn all around them, and the floor was littered with white rose petals.

Ned’s heart hammered within his chest. Ashara was nowhere to be seen, though a crowd had gathered to witness the proceedings. Ned couldn’t believe they were finally doing what they had been talking about for the last two years. The road had been treacherous, but Ned had endured The tribulations that the gods had thrown his way, and tonight it all felt worth it.

Then Ashara appeared, and Ned felt his heart physically stop.

She was a vision in white, looking all the world like the manifestation of the Maiden herself. Her raven hair had been brushed until it shone, and hung down her back in long, silky waves. Her white silk dress accented her curves perfectly, and Ned notes with a hint of jealousy the looks she was receiving from the other men present. Her cheeks shine rosy bright, and her luscious red lips were quirked into a smirk, laughing along with something that only her brilliant purple eyes knew of.

Ned swallowed and became aware of how dry his throat had become. Gods she was beautiful.

She smiled at him and Ned felt the connections within his head popping from an overload of emotion. He smiled back shyly, felling for all the world like the young man he had been when he first laid eyes on her.

She wandered down the aisle between the sea of people, her arm linked with her fathers. In her hands was clasped a bouquet of purple flowers, and following behind her was little Allyria carrying the golden bands Ned had carried with him for the duration of the war.

Ned’s father stepped forward from his place at the side of the tree. “Who comes before the old gods tonight?” He called, and his voice seemed to hang in the air.

“The Lady Ashara of House Dayne, a trueborn maiden, noble and flowered. Who comes to claim her?” Ashara’s father responded.

After a moment of silence Ned realised that was his cue to speak.

“I do.” Ned replied. “Eddard of House Stark, heir to Winterfell”

“Lady Ashara.” His father called. “Do you take this man to be your husband before the sights of gods and men?”

“I do.” Ashara replied, her sweet voice filling Ned’s ears.

“And you, Lord Eddard, do you take this woman to be your Lady wife before the sights of gods and men?”

“I do.” Ned replied firmly.

“Then you may cloak the bride.” His father said and Ashara stepped away from her father’s side to stand before him, her lips still quirked in a smirk.

Howland stepped forward, the marriage cloak of House Stark draped across his arms. Ned reaches up and unclamped Ashara’s cloak from her shoulders. He passed it to her father who took it away. Then he reached for the cloak in Howland’s arms before draping it over her shoulders.

Allyria stepped forth then, the two rings resting on a scarlet pillow. Ned picked one up and slid it onto Ashara’s ring finger, before she picked the other up and slid it onto his ring finger.

He smiled down at her, realising they were now married.

“I now pronounce you married before the sights of gods and men. You may kiss the bride.”

Ned didn’t even wait for his father to finish speaking, instead pulling Ashara in for a searing kiss that left him feeling light headed.

The rest of the night went by in a blur, filled with feasting and laughing and a happiness that Ned hadn’t felt in ages.

Most of the night his eyes were on his bride, the love of his life, the one who he had married. Her smile was infectious and Ned found himself smiling and laughing along with her. Ned smiles that much he was sure of Brandon had been here he would have been teasing him. Ned had Brandon to thank for the beautiful woman at his side, but Brandon was gone and Ned would never be able to thank his brother.

His brother was gone and had left a hole in his heart, but Ashara had more than filled it. Soon their family would grow, and three generations of Stark’s would be in Winterfell once more. Now all Ned had to do was bring home Lyanna and the story from the songs could end happily.


	63. The Tower of Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The confrontation at the Tower of Joy,@. Tell me what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry I haven’t been responding to comments but my internet has been down which has made life really difficult. I promise to respond first chance I get so keep em coming, the mean the world to me. Enjoy this chapter!

Rickard:

They would be seven against three.

Rickard and Ned had chosen each man carefully, and while all might not be the most skilled of fighters they were loyal to a fault, and would lay their own lives down to defend House Stark.

The first of his chosen five was Roderick Walton, Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors and one of the finest fighters Rickard has ever lain his eyes on. Rickard was yet to see a single man outside of the Weirwood Warriors who could stand against him and his storied Starsteel blade.

The second he had chosen was the captain of his household guard, Martyn Cassel. The Cassel’s has served house Stark for generations and were often counted among their closest allies, advisors and friends.

Martyn was no slouch with a blade either, and had spent his early years first as a captain of the Winter Wolves, and then had a stint out east with the Company of the Rose where he fought in the Pentoshi-Braavosi wars.

His third companion was none other than the diminutive crannogman, Howland Reed. It seemed fitting in a way, as Howland had been by Ned’s side since the Tourney of Harrenhall, where the smiles died. Rickard had seen the small man fight at the battle of the Trident, and while no songs would be sung of his valour, no songs would be sung of his death either.

The fourth in their party was Beron Saltstark, and while he may have been more at home on the deck of a ship than the back of a horse, he was loyal to Rickard, and knew how to fight with the cutlass he carried at his side.

Their fifth companion was a man that Rickard had not had much to do with until they were shipping their armies south to Storm’s End.

Rickard has been told that Davos Seaworth has spoken Stannis Baratheon down, a feat that amazed Rickard even more when he met with Stannis himself. The man was as stubborn as his moniker suggested, and would break before he would ever bend.

The fact that this old smuggler had managed to get him to bend only endeared the man to Rickard, and convinced Rickard that he would be an invaluable ally when confronting the remaining Kingsguard at the Tower of  Joy. Surely the man who had convinced Stannis the Stubborn to bend would be able to convince the remaining Kingsguard of the value of living.

The five companions had joined him and Ned as they rode out from the gates of Starfall, the banners on their lances fluttering in the dry Dornish breeze, proudly displaying who they were for all to see.

Ned was the last through the gates, his head constantly turning to check on the state of his new wife. She would be resigned to her bed soon, and Ned had stated he wanted to be there for the birth of his child.

Ashara Dayne though had commanded him to ride and retrieve her brother. Ned, being the love struck fool that he was, had not been able to refuse his purple eyed lover, and now they were riding out, though wether they were riding to war or peace was yet to be seen.

Rickard was just glad they were going to finish this. This would be the last act of the war, Rickard and his men riding to strike down the last pocket of resistance.

Rickard didn’t know what he would find in the tower. Many a night he had spent within his White Raven’s head, flitting around the tower, trying to gather the courage to enter. He never found the courage though, and since finding the Tower two months ago still had no clue as to what he would find inside. He had his suspicions, but he prayed to the gods that they were wrong, and only the paranoid musings of a man that had been burnt one too many times

Somehow though, he doubted the gods would be that kind.

His gods weren’t known for their benevolence after all.

 

Arthur:

They were three against seven.

Ned Stark had come, though Arthur was surprised he hadn’t brought more.

He came from the South, not the North as they had originally expected. Arthur was filled with a sense of dread. The only thing south of the Tower of Joy that would be of an interest to Ned Stark was Starfall. Had he already taken his sister away? Had his marauding hordes already swept through Dorne? Was Sunspear burning even now?

Ned Stark rode at the head of the column, flanked by two men Arthur recognised from the Tourney of Harrenhall. Howland Reed, wielding his three-pronged spear and Ethan Glover, his eye’s flashing darkly as he approached. Behind them came others that Arthur didn’t recognise, though even here, in this isolated corner of Dorne, he had heard rumours of the one that rode the White Hart.

Ned and his companions pulled their horses to a stop a distance away from them.

For a moment silence hung heavy in the air between them.

Arthur stood to the right of his Lord Commander, and Oswell stood to Ser Gerold’s left. Oswell looked positively murderous as he beheld in his eyes the Northern Lords that had come. A snarl was slowly creeping its way across his features and his sword was already half drawn from its scabbard.

“I fought at God’s Eye, and looked for you at the Trident.” Ned said

“We were not there.” Ser Gerold answered.

“Woe to your father if we had been.” Said Ser Oswell. Yea

At the back of the group, Arthur noticed one with a heavy cowl shift slightly at the mention of Ned’s father.

“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jamie slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”

“Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit on the Iron Throne and our false brother wou-”

The sound of a crossbow firing filled the air, and a shaft of darkness ripped through the space between the two parties. It slammed into Ser Gerold Hightowers chest, punching through his breastplate and striking at his heart.

“Aerys would have fallen whether you had been there or not you pathetic accuse for an honourable man.” The cloaked figure said as he spurred his horse to the forefront of the group, beside Ned Stark.

“Who are you to break the rules of parley?” Ser Gerold gasped as he fell to his knees. “We were under truce.”

“I saw no olive branch, nor beheld any peace banner. I saw three men armed before me and preparing to kill me to stop from getting what I want. As to who I am?” The cloaked figure responded. “I’m the one who broke your armies at The Trident! I’m the one who killed your precious silver prince! I’m the one who watched as Ser Jamie slew your king with his golden sword! I’m the one who Aerys attempted to burn alive Lord Commander!”

Arthur’s heart both sunk and soared in his chest at this declaration. That could only be one man. The cloaked figure reached up and threw back his hood to reveal the horribly scarred face of The Burnt Lord, the man, who by his own admission killed Rhaegar and watched as Aerys was slain. “Behold,” The Burnt Lord said as he raised his arms high, “The Burnt Lord is here!”

“To be honest,” The Burnt Lord said as he lowered his arms back to his sides, “I’m surprised you didn’t recognise me as I rode up. But then, the last time you saw me I still had hair, a beard, eyebrows and skin. Now I’m just a mess of wildfire and something that once resembled a human being.”

Ser Gerold fell to his back, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Ser Oswell drew his sword, and as quick as he had fired the first bolt, Rickard Stark threw away his crossbow and drew another. He pointed it at Ser Oswell, who paused midstride.

“The only reason you two are not dead right now as well is because one, you were not there on the day I was burned, and two, I have been begged to spare you.”

“You just killed the White Bull!” Ser Oswell exclaimed as he looked down upon the dying Lord Commander.

“Aye.” Rickard Stark replied. “And I’ll kill you too if you don’t shut up and let me speak.”

Ser Oswell stepped back, looking to Arthur uncertainly. Rickard Stark turned his cold gaze towards Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. This was no morning though for Arthur, this was the Evening of his life. Today he would die, but if he was to die he would kill the man who had killed Rhaegar and the one who had dishonoured his sister. It would be a good way to die, one that would be sung about in the songs for years to come.

“I don’t care for what you have to say.” Arthur said as he placed on his helm. “I don’t care for your demands to bend the knee, or your empty promises of titles and riches. You killed my friend. You killed my Prince. You killed my King.”

“Please Arthur!” Ned begged of him, “Hear out what we have to say!”

Arthur glared at him through the slit in his helm. “You dishonoured my sister.” Arthur spat. “You filled her head with empty promises and her belly with a babe, before fleeing away and marrying another.”

To Arthur’s surprise Ned scowled right back at him, showing a bite Arthur never knew the Quiet Wolf had. “I did not marry-”

“I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses. Get off your horse and fight me like a man. Or will you prove yourself as cowardly as your father and kill me with a crossbow?”

“Arthur…” Ser Oswell warned.

Arthur shook his head at his old friend. “What is your choice brother? Will you stand by me?”

Ser Oswell tilted his head at him, and with tears shining in his eyes, placed on his own helm upon his head. “To Oaths” he said hoarsely as he hefted his sword and stepped to Ser Arthur’s side.

“To Oaths.” Ser Arthur replied as he smiled bitterly.

The two men, the last remnants of Aerys Targaryen’s famed Kingsguard stood side by side, as brothers in arms, and prepared to die as their Lord Commander bled out on the floor beneath them.

Rickard Stark just raised his eyebrows and nodded to two men behind him.

Arthur notes the pained look on Ned Stark’s face as Arthur hefted his great sword and prepared to fight.

Two men from the back of the group drifted forward, walking confidently and easily. The rest of the Northern party just sat back and watched as their chosen champions approached.

“Coward!” Arthur called as he glared at Ned, “Once I’ve killed these two I’ll come for you!”

Arthur turned his gaze back to his approaching enemies. “I would have your names good Sers, so I may know the honour of who I am killing on this day.”

The first man, the one in more traditional steel and leather armour glanced at his companion before turning back to Arthur and Oswell. “Martyn Cassel, Ser Arthur, and I’m no Ser.”

Arthur shrugged. “Ser or not you will still die on this day. And you?” He asked as he turned to the one that ridden the White Hart.

The man, who was dressed in a strange armour comprised of steel and bronze, glanced at Rickard Stark who nodded his head slightly.

“Roderick.” The man replied. “Roderick Walton, Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors and wielded of the greatsword Harbinger.”

The man threw his cloak over his shoulders to reveal the hilt of a two handed greatsword that hung at his side. With one firm yank, he pulled the blade free of it’s brilliant red and white sheath, and held it high in the air.

It glittered brilliantly in the sun, and to Arthur’s amazement he recognised what the blade was made of.

“Starsteel?” He murmured as he lowered his own sword a fraction to look at the blade better and that was when Roderick Walton struck.

He was upon them before Oswell or Arthur had even stopped admiring his glittering blade, driving them both back with sweeping swings of his sword that left them both on the back foot. Arthur tried to catch his blade upon his own, but the force of the man’s swings almost wrenched Dawn from his hand. He back-pedalled even further, and to his relief Roderick broke off his attack upon Arthur, and then without even breaking stride or shifting his swing, he continued his attack upon Oswell.

Arthur went to assist his shield brother, but was stopped by another blade, though thankfully this one was just normal steel.

Martyn Cassel stepped in his path, his sword held defensively, his stance protective of his vital organs. Behind him Roderick Walton was hammering Oswell Whent around and Arthur noted that Oswell was struggling.

He needed to end this.

He attacked Martyn Cassel and almost immediately noted that he was no where near as good as Roderick Walton was. Arthur pushed himself hard against his opponent, flashing his sword in a barely of patents that the man was struggling to defend against. Arthur pauses to allow the man to attack him and create an opening to exploit, but Martyn Cassel only narrowed his eyes and retreated back into his fighting stance.

Behind him Arthur saw Roderick disarm Oswell and drive him into the desert floor.

Arthur rengaged Martyn Cassel with a yell, determined to assist his fallen brother.

Martyn fell back before him, retreating further away from Arthur’s sword and closer and closer to Roderick and Oswell.

With a grunt and a heave of his sword, Arthur pushed Martyn to the side and rushed Roderick.

The man in the bronze steel armour spun on his feet, and blocked Arthur’s own swing with his own. “Nice blade.” Arthur growled as the two men engaged in a battle of strength.

Roderick just grunted in response and pushed back against him.

“Enough!” A voice called, and almost immediately Roderick backed away and returned to his master’s side.

Panting, Arthur helped Oswell to his feet, before the two of them hefted their swords and went back to their positions in front of the tower door.

“Put down your swords.” Rickard Stark said as he hopped off his own horse. “No one needed to die today apart from Ser Gerold. Let’s not make this any messier than it has already been.”

Arthur glared at the man, at the family, that had brought the Targaryen dynasty low. “We are of the kingsguard, old man!” He spat. “We do not bend. We do not flee. We do not hide.”

“Now or then.” Oswell said as he twirled his sword.

Rickard Stark rolled his eyes at them. “Then do not bend.” He said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Arthur laughed hollowly. “You think the Usurper would allow us to live unmolested in his kingdom if we didn’t bend the knee?”

“I didn’t bend to Robert.”

Arthur’s laugh died in his throat. “What?” He asked.

“I refused to bend the knee to Robert when he took the throne. You can do the same.”

“Robert would take my head from my shoulders at the first chance he got.” Arthur snarled. “Nowhere in the seven kingdoms would I be safe.”

“In the North you would.” Rickard Stark replied.

Arthur just growled and tore off his helm before spitting on the ground. “That’s why I think of your offer.”

Rickard Stark’s eyes grew hard and he turned to his son. “You’ve got a minute before I kill them both myself.”

Ned’s eyes widened in panic and he spurred his horse forward. “Please Arthur!” Ned cried. “Lay down your sword.”

“I said I didn’t want to hear your excuses. Now will you fight me?”

“No!” Ned replied. “Please Arthur for Ashara’s sake!”

“Ashara?” Arthur asked incredulously. “You dare to speak her name even now?”

Arthur charged at Ned, throwing all caution to the wind and began to rain down blows upon him. Ned stumbled backwards out of the way of Arthur’s sword, before drawing his own sword from it’s sheath. Arthur wasn’t sure wether to be resigned or shocked that it was Starsteel as well. Their blades met with a resounding chime that echoed in the desert air around them.

“Please Arthur,” Ned pleaded, “hear me out! I’m not guilty of the crimes you think me of!”

Arthur just snarled and swung his sword at Ned’s head. Ned stepped back, and swung his own sword at Arthur’s chest. Arthur blocked and the two men continued to dance.

“30 seconds!” Rickard Stark called as he pulled his own sword loose.

Ned stopped dancing and dropped his sword to the ground. “I tell you now.” He said, “I married your sister four days past in the godswood of Starfall. I never married Catelyn Tully. Please Arthur, for the sake of your sister and her unborn child, cease this madness!”

Arthur stepped back, his sword still held in front of him.

“Arthur please!” Ned begged, “Rhaegar is dead! Aerys is dead! Viserys is fled across the seas! What left is there for you to fight for?”

Arthur glanced behind him to the Tower where she lay. What left was there to fight for?

Ned’s voice softened and he took a cautious step closer. “Come with me and Ashara Arthur. I promise you will not have to bend the knee to Robert so long as you renounce your oaths as kingsguard. If Ashara and I have a son, you can teach him swordplay, if we have a daughter you can dote over her.”

Arthur’s will softened as he thought of his family, but then brown eyes and black hair flashed before his eyes and his fury came back riding a wave of emotion that Arthur had kept compressed for years now.

“What of Elia’s children?” Arthur asked lowly. “What of Rhaenys and Aegon? I will never be able to teach Aegon swordplay nor dote on Rhaenys because of this war. No,” Arthur said, “Today I fight to avenge them as well.”

“They need no avenging.” Ned said as he shook his head. “I sent soldiers into the city before the King’s Landing fell to spirit her and her children away. They await you, even now, in the North.”

Arthur scoffed in disbelief. “Don’t lie.” He hissed angrily. “You dishonour her memory!”

“I’m not!” Ned exclaimed as he stepped even closer, within range of Arthur’s sword. “Ask Lord Davos! He was the one who sailed her out of King’s Landing upon his own craft.”

“Who is this Lord Davos? Another loyal dog?”

“No.” A voice replied with a thick flea bottom accent. “I’m just a smuggler. Beron Saltstark paid me to rescue your princess. So I did.”

Arthur turned to the old, plain faced man who had spoken. “What proof do you have apart from your own word?” He asked.

The old man shrugged. “Nothing.” He replied. “Nothing, but words spoken to me by the princess herself.”

“And what words would those be?” Arthur said as he adjusted his grip on his sword.

“He already has a song, she said, a song of ice and fire. Then she scoffed. More like a song of death and destruction she said.”

Arthur stilled when he heard Rhaegar’s words thrown in his face, by a man who had no business knowing those words. Arthur began to breathe heavily, remembering how he felt at the start of the war, how angry he was at Rhaegar for spurning Elia. Gods, if there was even the smallest chance that she was still alive somewhere, he needed to find her and apologise.

He only hoped she would forgive him.

“If I find out you’ve been lying to me Lord Eddard, I’ll make your death more painful that the one you gave Rhaegar.”

Ned swallowed and nodded his head. “If Elia is not in the North I will place my head on the block myself.”

Arthur paused, considering what Ned had just said before he dropped Dawn and collapsed to his knees. He tore of his helm and lay down upon the hot sands. “She’s in the Tower.” Arthur said, “though I’ll warn you now, it might not be the scene you’re expecting.”

Ned nodded once, and then rushed past him. Oswell stepped in his path, his sword drawn.

“Let him go Oswell.” Arthur called, “what’s in that Tower will hurt him more than anything we could ever do to him.”

With a last look of trepidation, Ser Oswell Whent stepped aside, and Ned Stark walked past him, up to the tower where his sister lay. Soon would come the cries Arthur knew, though wether they would come from Eddard or Lyanna Stark it was yet to be seen.

 

Ned:

Ned climbed the stairs of the dusty tower, his feet pounding on the floor, and his heart hammering in his chest. Sand and dust lined everything and the heat within was stifling. Gods, Lyanna must have hated it here. She had always been a creature of the North.

He came to a stop before a closed door, and heard hushed voices within.

His hand rested on the doorknob, and with his heart beat hammering in his hears he turned the doorknob and wrenched the door open.

For the first time since the Tourney of Harrenhall, Ned laid eyes on his sister, the one who his brother had died for.

Behind him Ned heard footsteps, and he turned to see his father, looking more uncertain than he had in months, climbing the stairs behind him. His father entered the room and stopped beside him, and drank in the sight of his daughter.

 

Davos:

Rickard Stark swung off his horse and rushed after his son, up the stairs and into the tower. Both parties of men left just observed each other from a distance, when Davos noticed the sheen of sweat that had broken out on Ser Arthur’s brow. He swung off his horse, and grabbed one of the water skins tied to his horse.

He yanked it off and began to walk over to the famed knight, though walking may have been exaggerating a little bit. His arse felt like it had been pounded by a sledge hammer, and the pads of his thumbs had been chafed bloody.

By the old gods, did Davos hate horses. Give him a ship any day. A ship did what it was told, while horses often seemed to have a mind of their own.

Davos reaches Ser Arthur’s side and held out the water skin for him. “Here,” he said as uncorked the stopper. “Have some water. It’s warm, but it’s better than nothing.”

Ser Arthur took the bottle and sniffed at it suspiciously. Davos tolled his eyes at the knight. “You highborns are all fat to suspicious of everyone else.”

Ser Arthur smiled kindly at Davos, before tipping the bottle up and pouring some of the liquid down his throat.

“Thank you.” The famed knight said as he passed the bottle back. “Have you met many suspicious highborns in your life?”

Davos smiles back at the knight. “One or two.” Davos admitted ruefully.

“Would I know them?”

“Perhaps.” Davos replied.

“Who?” Ser Arthur asked.

Davos nodded to Beron Saltstark, who was engaged in deep conversation with Howland Reed. “Beron always seemed suspicious of me when he came across my ship in The Bite.”

Ser Arthur smirked. “Did he have any reason to be suspicious?”

Davos shrugged. “He never caught me, so I guess not.”

Ser Arthur laughed. “You must be a good sailor then to outrun The Salty Wolf. All we ever heard about in court from Lucerys Velaryon was how he was a better sailor than Beron.”

“I can’t say for sure, but I’ve had a go at outrunning both of them and Beron always had my heart pumping harder.”

“Have you had much experience with other highborns?”

Davos shrugged. “Stannis Baratheon was another one.”

Ser Arthur grimaced. “Stannis the Stubborn? What were you doing with him?”

“He was starving in an undermanned castle that was being sieged. I smuggled in some food and men.”

Ser Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the man that broke the siege of Storm’s End?”

Davos shook his head. “Beron was the man who broke the siege. I was the one who relieved it.”

“Why?” Ser Arthur asked him. “Why did you do it?”

Davos shuddered as he thought of emaciated limbs and a gnawing hole within his stomach. “Have you ever been starving Ser Arthur?”

Ser Arthur shook his head at Davos. “I can’t say I have.” He said.

“Then never judge me for what I did.” Davos replied as he passed the water bottle to Ser Oswell Whent.

Ser Arthur looked at Davos strangely. “Your a funny man Davos.”

Davos shrugged. “You’d be the first to say that to me.”

“Really?” Arthur asked. “What did Stannis think of you?”

Davos wiggles his shortened fingers. “Before or after he took my fingers?”

“Both.” Arthur replied.

“Before he thought I was weak, after he said I was a good man.”

“And what of Elia?” Ser Arthur asked as he wathed Davos closely. “What did she think of you?”

“I don’t know.” Davos replied. “She never told me. Her daughter though, Rhaenys, she considered me her friend.”

“Her friend?” Ser Arthur asked bemusedly.

“Yes.” Davos replied. “The first thing she asked me when she met me was if I would be her friend.”

“And what did you say?” Ser Oswell asked as he joined them.

“I said yes.” Davos replied as he handed the water skin to Ser Oswell, who drank deeply. Ser Oswell belched loudly before chugging down another mouthful of water.

“Behold!” Ser Oswell called as he raised the water skin in salute, “Lord Davos, famous smuggler, daring sailor and friend to infant princesses!”

His declaration was met with strange looks from a few of the other men, especially Ethan Glover, who continued to glare at the two of them darkly. To Davos’ exasperation, Ser Oswell noted his gaze. He sneered at the glaring boy. “You got a problem boy?” He spat.

Ethan Glover’s eyes flashed and he drew his sword. Ser Arthur grabbed Ser Oswell’s as he went to draw his own. Davos flashed a glance at Beron, who rushed over and dragged the cursing Ethan away.

Ser Oswell shook off Arthur’s arm angrily. “What was his problem anyway? He was behaving as if we were the ones who committed treason!”

“Leave him alone.” Davos said as he took the water skin back. “He’s been through enough in the last year.”

Ser Arthur’s gaze tracked the boy as Beron walked away with him into the desert. “He was one of Brandon Stark’s companions wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Davos replied. “How did you know?”

“I remember seeing him at the Tourney of Harrenhall. He followed Brandon everywhere, his constant shadow. He was different back then though, his gaze was lighter and he smiled more.”

“Many men where different before the smiles died.” Ser Oswell said darkly.

“Many men where alive before the smiles died.” Davos suggested not unkindly.

“What happened to him?” Ser Arthur asked as the boy disappeared over the horizon.

Davos glanced after the boy’s retreating figure. “He spent 12 months in the Black Cells.” Davos said. “I pulled him from that cell myself on the day of the sack.” Davos’ voice cracked as he thought of the broken boy he had helped from the cell that day. “He was teetering on the brink of insanity. He’d been tortured for 12 months as they tried to get information out of him. To the boy’s credit he didn’t break his jailors said. He still bears the scars on his back, front, wrists and ankles.”

Ser Oswell glanced after the boy with a pained look, and Davos wondered if he regretted how he had treated him.

Their thoughts on Ethan Glover was interrupted by yells and screams from within the Tower. Everyman present dropped his hand to his sword and prepared to fight, but Ser Arthur and Oswell just turned to each other and grimaced.

“You win.” Arthur said as he reached into his bag and withdrew a few golden dragons, before throwing them across to Oswell. Oswell caught them midair before pocketing them. “I always win.” He said with a shaky grin.

Davos turned back to the tower just in time to see Rickard Stark storming out of the tower, his grey cloak billowing out behind him.

“What happened?” Martyn Cassel asked as he stepped forward to greet his liege lord.

The Burnt Lord didn’t respond, instead he vaulted onto his horse and kicked its sides. The horse shot away, and disappeared into the desert.

Davos looked back at Ser Arthur confused, but noted the savage glint of triumph within his eyes.

They waited for Ned Stark to come down the steps, but he never appeared. Time went by and the sun made it’s way across the sky. Finally, after at least two hours, the crannogman got to his feet. “I’ll go and get him.” He said, and made his way into the tower.

When not even Howland Reed remerged, Arthur Dayne sighed and got to his feet.

“What’s in there?” Davos asked as Ser Arthur began to walk towards the tower. Ser Arthur looked back over his shoulder mournfully, but did not respond. Davos turned to Ser Oswell confused, but Ser Oswell refused to meet his gaze and had instead chosen this moment to check the bindings on his armour.

Ser Arthur entered the tower and barely a minute later the sounds of more yelling came from within the tower, but this time, Ned Stark emerged from the tower as well.

He looked horrible. His hands were covered in blood, and his eyes were rimmed with red, while his hair was dishevelled. Arthur led Ned over to a rock and sat him down, before calling for water. Davos passed over his own bottle, and Arthur proceeded to wash the broken man of the blood that covered his hands and jerkin.

The whole time he spent the time talking to Ned, whispering in his ear and telling him things, though what he said Davos had no clue, as the words were meant for Ned Stark alone. It seemed to drag Ned Stark from his stupor though, and after a while he got to his feet.

“Roderick!” Ned called.

“Yes My Lord?” Roderick asked.

“Go and find my father and look after him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“At once.” Roderick said, before he swung his legs over his White Hart and tapped its back, causing it to gallop away in the direction Rickard Stark had gone.

“Martyn and Ethan!” Ned said as he turned to the two men. “Ride at once for Starfall and warn them of our coming!”

The two men nodded and spurred their horses in the direction of Starfall.

Ned waited until they were gone before giving his next instructions. “Build two litters.” He said. “Then we will burn this accursed place to the ground.”


	64. Eddard, Arthur, Ashara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV from Ned, Arthur and Ashara. This chapter was inspired by King_of_Kings Outlaw King, chapter eight. Used with permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things I want to know from you guys. 
> 
> Do you want longer chapters like this one every two days, or shorter chapters every day? And if you have any things you think I havent wrapped up yet let me know cause there is a few chapters left (6) before I finish the Robert's Rebellion arc. Let me know what you want to know!
> 
> Thanks so much for the support by the way! It's what has kept me going with this fic!

Eddard:

The smell of smoke and blood hung upon their group like the perfume of death itself. They were all weary, sunburned and hungry so when the soaring towers of Starfall appeared upon the horizon many of the party were relived.

Ned himself was relived if only for the fact that he could now take Ashara and leave Dorne for good. He hated this place. He hated the sun, the sand and the heat. It drove him mad. He hated the death that seemed to hang in the very air around them. He missed the summer snows of the North, the cold winds that blew across the lands and the peace and quiet of the godswood that was 10,000 years old. He missed the heart tree’s searching gaze. He missed Benjen, and his laugh. He missed Brandon and his wild gaze. He missed Lyanna and her wild ways. He missed the days before the world had gone to shit.

Before a Mad King had killed his brother and burned his father. Before a dragon Prince had run away with his little sister. Before the Tourney where the madness began and the smiles died. Gods life had been simple back then.

It had just been him and Robert running around the Eyrie and living life to the fullest. He missed those days and the innocent children they had been, even as they reached their majority.

Ned was now known as The Stranger’s Wolf. Robert was now the king, and had endorsed the murder of children. What had happened to the innocence of their youth?

“We’re almost there Ned.” A voice said, and Ned turned to see Howland smiling at him. Ned nodded back, but couldn’t bring himself to smile. What left was there to smile about anyway? The smiles had died at Harrenhall, and Ned was yet to see anything that could bring his smile back.

Behind Howland he saw the litter that carried his sister’s body and quickly averted his gaze. He mourned for her. He would forever mourn for her. He would build a place for her in Winterfell and damn what his father had to say. Damn his father and the bitter, burnt man he had become. Damn him.

The gates of Starfall loomed large and opened before them. Ned’s horse plodded through dutifully, and Ned’s eyes searched the yard. Ashara wasn’t there, and Ned’s heart sunk even further. He had promised her he would be back for the birth. He had failed her too.

Ned dismounted from his horse and sunk to his knees. He breathed out heavily. Someone passed him water and he drank, though the whole time he wondered what he was drinking for.

Brandon was dead. Lyanna was dead. His father had run away. What was the point anymore?

He dropped the bottle of water to the ground and watched the liquid spill out upon the dust. He fell backwards onto his back and couldn’t seem to gather the energy to lift himself out of the dust.

“Ned.” He heard Arthur call, but he ignored him. He should have died. He deserved to die. They all deserved to die. Especially Ned. He had failed his little sister. While he had been gallivanting in Starfall with Ashara his sister had been bleeding out and dying. He had failed them all.

“Ned!” Arthur again, this time more forcefully. Ned closed his eyes and laid back his head upon the floor. Screw him.

Then he felt a hand upon his arm, grasping him and dragging him to his feet. “Get up!” Arthur snarled. “My sister is giving birth right now.”

“I don’t care.” Ned replied heavily. “I want to go home.”

Arthur glared at him suddenly, before letting go of his arm and punching him in the face. Ned felt something crack and then he was on the floor. He heard yelling and the sound of a scuffle occurring but Ned could only see the blood that was running down his front.

The pain felt good. It was what he deserved. He had failed them all.

“Ned.” He heard Howland call gently. “C’mon get up. We need you. Your son needs you.”

Howland’s words echoed in Ned’s ears. He lifted his head slightly. “I have a son?” He asked.

“That’s what the servants are saying.”

Ned stumbled to his feet. He failed his sister. He failed his brother. He failed his father. He failed Ashara. He was a failure. He would be damned if he failed his son though.

“Where is he?” He asked groggily.

“This way M’Lord.” A servant said and she led him through the halls, towards Ashara’s chambers atop the Palestone Tower.

He was led to a room he had never been in before, and when he entered he was hit with the smell of blood and death. The same smell that lingered in that tower. His heart rate picked up, and his blood churned throughout his body.

Gods please, Ned begged, don’t take them too. You’ve taken enough from me this war, please don’t take anymore.

To Ned’s immense relief though, he saw Ashara lying in bed, looking tired but well. She smiled when she saw him and held out the bundle in her arms.

Ned’s heart caught in his throat. With shaking hands he stepped forward and sat on the side of the bed.

“Hello.” Ashara said, but Ned didn’t respond, his eyes transfixed by the beautiful baby that was nestled in her arms.

“Ned?” She asked. “Are you alright?”

Ned felt tears spring to his eyes as he looked down upon the cherubic face of his son. He had a tuft of curly black hair, and whe he opened his eyes Ned noted he had inherited Rickard Stark’s commanding grey gaze, though this boys were darker, so dark they were almost black in the dark room.

“Ned?” Ashara asked, her concern evident in her voice. “What happened at the tower?”

Ned swallowed and held out his arms for his baby. Ashara narrowed her eyes at him but passed over the baby without a word.

“He’s beautiful.” Ned breathed. “What shall we name him?”

“Not Robert.” Ashara replied with a hint of defiance.

“Not Robert.” Ned agreed. “Nor Rickard.”

“Nor Rickard?” Ashara asked.

“Nor Rickard.” Ned confirmed his grief and still burning within him.

“What shall we call him then?”

Ned’s thoughts turned to his other father, the one who had raised him from eight years of age. “Jon.” Ned declared. “He will be Jon. Jon Stark.”

Ashara frowned. “Will your bannermen care that you named him after your foster father?”

“Jon is a northern name.” Ned replied. “Jon Stark drove the pirates from the Wolf’s Den and reclaimed the White Knife.”

Ashara nodded, appeased. “Jon it is.”

Ned reached out and traced the boy’s chubby face with his finger. The skin was so soft and delicate it was hard to believe. The whole baby was delicate and Ned wondered how he had ever made something so beautiful. Then he remembered Lyanna’s poor babe and the smile that was beginning to play across his features was wiped away. He handed Jon back to Ashara and got to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Ashara asked.

“To pray.” Ned replied.

Then he turned and walked from the room, down the halls and before the searching eyes of the Heart Tree. He knelt before it’s wide branches and began to pray.

 

Arthur:

Arthur wandered down the halls he had played in as a child, towards his sister’s chambers. The welcome had Ned received from the castle staff proved to Arthur that he hadn’t been lying about marrying Ashara, but had offered no proof that he had rescued Elia.

Ned had never struck him as the man to lie though. But then again, Ned had never struck him as the sort of man that men would call The Stranger’s Wolf. Eddard Stark clearly hid a lot behind that sombre façade.

He stopped before his sister’s door and hesitated before entering. When he finally gathered the courage to open the door he was surprised to find her sitting up. She turned when he entered and her eyes narrowed. “What did you do to my husband?” She asked.

“So he did marry you?”

“Of course he did.” Ashara scoffed. “You were wrong.”

“I was.” Arthur conceded. “And I only punched him once.”

“You punched him?” Ashara asked.

“Only once.” Arthur argued.

Ashara turned and looked out the window, the one that had a view of the summer sea. “Before Ned left he was the happiest I had ever seen him.” She admitted in a small voice. “He couldn’t stop smiling, and he was constantly laughing with me. He leaves to retrieve his sister and comes back a broken man.” Ashara turned to him, her laughing eyes deadly serious. “What happened?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably under Ashara’s piercing gaze. “She died.” Arthur confirmed and he saw Ashara’s shoulders sink.

“How did she die?” Ashara asked hollowly.

“She had a difficult childbirth.” Arthur replied.

“And the babe?”

“Dead. A baby girl. Rhaegar was right it seemed.”

“What did Rickard Stark say?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur replied as he thought of The Burnt Lord’s horrible face. “They entered the tower alone. A few minutes later there was screaming and yelling and then Rickard Stark came storming out, mounted his horse and fled away to the North. Ned sent Roderick after him.”

Ashara stirred and tried to get herself out of her bed, but Arthur rushed over and pushed her back down. “You’re not meant to get up for another few hours Ashara.”

“I need to see Ned!” Ashara insisted.

“Ned can wait.” Arthur said. “I came here to see my nephew.”

Ashara stopped trying to get out of bed and instead turned her gaze to the far side of the room where a cradle sat that Arthur had not noticed upon his entrance.

Arthur got to his feet, his white armour clanking with his movement. With a sense of trepidation Arthur made his way over to the cradle where his nephew lay.

The little babe stared up at him with intelligent grey eyes. On his head sat a tuft of dark curly hair, but these seemed to be the only things he had inherited from his father. The rest of his face belonged to Ashara. His mouth, nose and the shape of his eyes all belonged to his mother.

“He looks like you.” Arthur said as he smiled down at the babe who just continued to stare at him.

“Really?” Ashara asked from where she lay. “Everyone says he resembles his father.”

“Oh he does.” Arthur replied. “But his mouth and nose and belong to you. He’s far to pretty to be a Stark.”

“Ned is handsome.” Ashara replied defensively. “And many a woman fell for Brandon’s good looks.”

“Aye.” Arthur replied with a wry grin, “They were handsome. Not pretty. That boy is pretty.”

Ashara tilted her head and smirked as she understood his meaning. “He is pretty.” She conceded.

“I would have thought he was a girl if I didn’t know better.” Arthur teased.

“Hey!” Ashara exclaimed. She picked up a pillow and threw it at him. Arthur laughed and threw it back. He turned back to the babe and wiggled his finger in front of his face. The babe just watched him with his eyes, not making a sound.

“He’s a quiet one isn’t he?” Arthur asked. “I remember Allyria used to scream all the time.”

“He is a quiet one.” Ashara agreed. “Like his father.”

“Like his father.” Arthur agreed. “What’s his name?”

“Jon.” Ashara replied. “Jon Stark.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a moment, enjoying a peace in each other’s company they had not experienced since Harrenhall.

“Arthur?” Ashara asked, and Arthur knew from her tone she was worried.

“Yes?” He asked as he tickled the babe’s nose.

“What are you going to do now?”

Arthur stilled and turned from the babe. “I don’t know.” He replied.

“What are Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell planning to do?”

“Ser Gerold’s dead.” Arthur replied with a heavy heart.

Ashara sighed. “I thought he would die. Rickard wanted every man who was present on the day he was burned dead.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there then.”

“What of Ser Oswell?”

“He’s thinking of running to Essos.”

“Essos?” Ashara exclaimed.

“Yes.” Arthur replied. “We can’t stay here Ashara. Robert would have us dead within a week.”

“Are you going to go and serve Viserys?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur replied thinking of the boy who had already been showing the same tendencies as his father. “Viserys is not Rhaegar. I don’t want to serve anymore Mad Kings.”

“Come North with me.” Ashara begged.

“And what of Ser Oswell?” Arthur asked. “I cannot abandon my battle brother.”

“He can come too! Ned will keep you safe from Robert’s wrath!”

“No he can’t.” Arthur said as he shook his head.

“He saved Elia.” Ashara insisted.

Arthur laughed darkly. “You believe him?”

Ashara looked at him with hurt in her eyes. “You don’t?” She asked in a small voice.

“I’m doubtful.” Arthur replied. “Why would he save her? What was in it for him?”

“He promised me he would.”

“He promised?” Arthur asked skeptically.

“Yes.” Ashara insisted. “Right after Rickard Stark told me he was going to kill her.”

Arthue hummed in response and turned back to the baby. “What if Robert asks me to serve on his kingsguard. He already accepted Barristan.”

“And Jamie.” Ashara added.

“Don’t mention him to me.” Arthur snarled.

Ashara glanced at him, but didn’t comment further. The two continued to spend time in each other’s company when the door opened again and in wandered Ser Oswell Whent.

“Hello Ashara.” He said as he made his way across to the cradle.

“Hello Os.” She replied with the hint of a smirk playing across her face. Arthur knew she had always enjoyed Oswell’s company and the japes that came with it. Oswell looked down upon Jon with a look of indifference before turning back to Ashara. “He’s fat.” He said flatly.

Ashara burst out laughing. “Of course he is. All babies are.”

Oswell frowned. “I wasn’t. I came out of my mother’s womb wielding a sword and with a body the ladies were falling over each other for.”

“Really?” Arthur asked dryly.

“Yea.” Oswell replied as he sat down in a chair and poured himself a goblet of wine. “My body was so handsome that only male wetnurses could nurse me. All the women would go into this state they call lovestruck.”

Ashara’s laugh’s only echoed louder while Arthur snorted. “The only woman that could ever love you is your mother.”

Oswell made a show of looking offended before scoffing and throwing back his own quip. “The only woman that would ever love you is one who you paid.”

Arthur frowned at him. “That’s not true.”

“Ah, yes.” Oswell said with a rueful shake of his head. “The only woman who would ever love you is a married one. Now that’s tragedy.” He said as he toasted Arthur with his goblet.

Arthur glared at him. “That wasn’t funny.” He snapped.

Oswell shrugged. “To me it was.”

Ashara winced at Oswell. “It wasn’t really funny.”

Oswell frowned. “Yes it was. Just because you two didn’t find it funny doesn’t mean it isn’t.” Oswell got up and wandered over to the baby. “look let’s ask the baby.”

Oswell pulled a face at the babe. “Is you Uncle Arthur a tragedy?”

To Arthur’s exasperation Jon chose this moment to smile. “See!” Oswell beamed. “It is funny!” Oswell turned back to Jon and rubbed his cheek. “I like you.” He said. “You have a good sense of humour. It’s a pity I won’t be around to see you grow.”

“You’re planning on going?” Ashara asked accusingly.

“Of course.” Oswell scoffed. “I’m not serving the Usurper, and no offense Ashara, but I don’t think your husbands offer extended to me.”

“What about Harrenhall?” Ashara asked.

Oswell scowled darkly. “I won’t risk my family any more than I already have. Robert will want me to serve in his kingsguard. If I refuse they will punish my family. If I flee East everyone lives and is happy.”

“Come North with me.” Ashara begged. “You can teach Jon how to swing a sword.”

Oswell shook his head. “Your Lord would never want me there.”

“You don’t know that!” Ashara exclaimed. “Ned will have you in the North.”

Oswell laughed. “It’s not Ned I’m worried about.”

Ashara realised what Oswell was saying and she winced. “Oh.” She said.

“Oh.” Oswell agreed.

Ashara lifted her chin, like she did when she had gotten an idea stuck in her head. “I’m going to ask Ned right now if you can come North. You and Arthur both. Arthur can be Jon’s sworn shield and you can be my sworn shield. That way you are safe from everyone who says no and Rickard Stark can’t throw you out of the North.”

Oswell’s face contorted and Arthur knew he wanted to say yes. The problem was he didn’t see it working without Ned’s agreeance and with the way Ned had behaved after the tower he doubted it was something he was going to get.

“Ned won’t agree.” Arthur said as he played with Jon. “He’s furious with both of us over the Tower.”

Ashara’s gaze hardened. “I would be too.” Then her gaze softened. “I’ll go and talk to him. I’m sure he can be convinced to agree.”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think it’s going to work Ashara. Robert will want us in his kingsguard. We can’t stay in Westeros.”

Ashara shook her head stubbornly. “It’s well known that only two men have the ear of Robert Baratheon. Ned is one of those two men. If any man can be convinced to do it, it’ll be Ned.”

Ashara swung her legs over the side of the bed and shakily got to her feet. Arthur rushed to her side and tried to push her back down to the bed, but she stubbornly insisted on moving to the door. “Leave me alone.” She said. “I need to speak with my husband.”

Arthur sighed but got out of her way. He may have been the Sword of the Morning, but not even he could stand against his sister. Reluctantly he moved out of the way. She stopped at the door and turned back to Arthur. “Arthur,” She said, “Please don’t let Oswell do anything stupid with Jon.”

Arthur grinned. “Don’t worry. My nephew has the Sword of the Morning as his sworn sword. Not a hair on his head shall be harmed.”

 

Ashara:

Ashara found her husband before the Heart Tree, kneeling and his eyes closed in silent prayer. Tears stains lined his dusty cheeks, and his nose was crooked, clearly recently broken and not yet set properly. Her feet glided across the floor that was strewn with red leaves.

“Ned.” She called softly and Ned’s eye’s fluttered open. They were rimmed with red, further proof he had been crying recently. Either that or he had been drinking heavily. He lifted his head to look at her, and nodded formally.

“Ashara.” He greeted. His voice was troubled and formal, much like the one he had used when he had first met her at the Tourney of Harrenhall. It was the voice of an unsure man, battling with emotions that raged inside of him. “Where is Jon?” he asked.

“With Oswell and Arthur.” Ashara replied, carefully watching his reaction.

Ned’s foggy grey eyes hardened and his lips curled upwards into the beginnings of a snarl. He turned away and returned his gaze to the Heart Tree’s face.

“Ned?” Ashara asked cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Ashara could see that he was upset. It would have been obvious even if she hadn’t known him like she did. Her husband had gone through much in the past year, much of it in the hope that at the end he would get his sister back. It must have broken him even more to have a final few minutes with her before she died. It would have felt like the gods were mocking him, giving back what he had fought for, only to take it again minutes later.

Ned frowned. “No.” He replied shortly and closed his eyes again.

“What happened?” She asked gently.

“She died.” Ned replied.

Ashara waited. She knew Ned would open up when he was ready. If she had to wait for it, then wait she would. She pulled her cloak off her shoulders and laid it on the floor, before sitting down upon it.

After a few minutes of silence Ned turned back to her and opened his mouth. He told her everything and Ashara mourned for the man she loved. She didn’t know what she would have done in his position. How do you choose between two people you love? Do you comfort the dying or look after the living?

“Winter has come.” Ned whispered as tears ran down his cheeks. “The pack stays strong I was told. The pack turned on each other though.”

“Yes.” Ashara agreed. “Winter has come.” The words gave her a chill. The Stark words. Every house had it’s own words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts; they boasted of honour and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage, All but the Starks. Winter is coming they said. A morbid reminder that all good things must come to an end. Not for the first time, Ashara reflected on what a strange breed these Northerners were.

“No one deserves to die like she did, and no one deserved to be treated like he was.” Ned said. “How do you choose?”

Ashara sighed. “I love you Ned.” She said as she clambered into his lap and pressed a kiss into his temple.

“I love you too.” Ned replied as he kissed her lips. His eyes found hers, and she could see how soft his grey eyes had become. She loved his eyes. She loved the way they could go from soft as fog one minute to hard as steel the next. At the Tourney of Harrenhall, Ned had entraced her with the same soft gaze, a gaze Ashara had yet to see in any other man. When they had lain together in Sisterton, it was those eyes that had entranced her so as he had filled her with his seed. It was those eyes that had gazed down upon his son, just earlier this morning. Soft grey eyes that had caught her in their web.

“Do you remember our time in Sisterton?” he asked to her surprise, and for a moment the worries melted away from his face. Ashara felt the blood rise to her cheeks and her core burn as she thought of that night.

“I do.” She replied as she looked up at him from where she was nestled in his lap. How could she forget? That was one of the most exhilarating nights of her life. That was the night when Jon had been created.

“That was somehow simultaneously one of the worst and best days of my life.” Ned said and Ashara giggled at him. She could see from the look on his face that he treasured the memory of that night as much as she did.

“It was one of the best and worst days of my life too.” Ashara said as she played with the stubble that lined his jawline. “I wish we could have more of those days. Days like the ones at Harrenhall and the Three Sisters. Days of laughter, happiness and…love.”

Ned blushed as Ashara winked at him and Ashara laughed lightly.

“Would that we could.” Ned replied with a hint of melancholy, “I would have anything to have those days back. But those days are gone.”

“Perhaps one last night of debauchery?” Ashara asked as she smirked at him. “A last hurrah of sorts. To days gone by.”

“No.” Ned replied firmly. “This morning you were in the birthing bed. You’re not even meant to be out of bed right now.”

“Well someone had to check on my husband.”

Ned smiled softly at her. “Howland could have done it.”

“I couldn’t find him.” Ashara replied.

Ned raised an eyebrow at her. “Did you even look?” He asked.

“No.” She admitted. “But if I had to look for him I would have had to get out of bed anyway.”

Ned smiled at her. “I should have known better than to argue with you.”

Ashara laughed at him and they spent time in each other’s company lying before the Heart Tree in silence, drinking in the pleasure of each other’s company.

The two of them lay back and cuddled into each other’s arms. This was a closeness Ashara hadn’t felt with Ned since sisterton. It was nice.

“Ned.” She murmured. “What are we doing now?”

“Going home.” Ned replied.

“To Winterfell?”

“Yes.”

“What of Robert?” Ashara asked. In her arms she felt Ned stiffen. “I guess I’ll have to drop in at King’s Landing on the way. I’ll have to explain why Arthur and Oswell are coming North with me anyway. I don’t think that’s the sort of thing Robert would just accept if I sent him a letter.”

In her chest Ashara’s heart soared and she kissed him passionately. Ned responded to her ministrations and rolled over so she was trapped beneath him. He began to press kisses to his neck, and down to her breast. His lips tingled wherever they touched and left her heart fluttering and her core clenching in desire.

“I love you.” Ned breathed as he pressed another kiss to her lips before rolling off her. Ashara whined in protest but Ned just smiled at her gently. “Not tonight Ashara.” He said.

“I love you Ned.” Ashara breathed back as she kissed his lips again.

Her brother and his friend would be with her when she came North and under the protection of the man she loved. Already her best friend was in the North, locked away in some secure mountain fortress. Soon it would be just like the good old days when they were still children and splashing in the Water Gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not revealing what went on in the Tower but I promise I will reveal exactly what happened next chapter! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, before you comment that Jon is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, please read what this is fanfiction for. This is for ASOIAF and not the T.V show. In the books, Jon’s parentage is still up in the air!


	65. Rickard VI: The Pit of Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard runs away. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

Rickard Stark staggered from the dimly lit tower and out into the bright Dornish deserts. He looked around, half blinded by the sun that beat down upon him. A horse. He needed a horse. He needed to run. Away, away from this place.

He saw his horse and stumbled towards it, before throwing himself into the saddle. He heard something behind him, but he didn’t care to listen. He kicked the sides of his horse hard and it shot away, away into the Dornish desert.

Behind him he left his son, his dying daughter and the loyal men who had followed him from Moat Cailin to Dorne. Behind him he left his anger, his vengeance, and all his grief. Within him though his pain still burned bright. He felt the pain whenever the wind brushed his skin, whenever his cloak sat to heavily upon his shoulders, whenever he focused too much on what he had lost.

He had lost everything it seemed. Everything but Ned and Benjen.

Poor Benjen was stuck in the North ruling in his stead while Ned and Rickard went to war in the South. He had been a dutiful son and deserved to be rewarded. He had been a true member of the pack.

When the cold winds rise and the snow falls the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. That was what he had told his children. That was what he had ingrained into them from birth. Stick together he had told them. He thought they had listened.

He was wrong.

Hot tears fell down his cheeks, the first tears Rickard had allowed to fall since his son had died. Since his son had died, Rickard thought as a sob burst from his lips unbidden. It seemed a lifetime ago that he he knelt before him and sworn to avenge him. He had sworn an ancient oath upon his son’s cold body and fulfilled it. So why did he now feel so empty?

Was it because he now knew that all the fighting all the death, Brandon’s death, had all been for nothing?

All for nothing. The faces of the fallen swum before his eyes. The memories of the atrocities he had committed in order to fulfill his oath sprung into his minds eye.

Brandon had died for Lyanna. Brandon had died for her and she hadn’t even cared.

He closed his eyes but bloodied sheets filled his mind, and death filled his nostrils.

He kicked his horse’s flanks harder, trying to run as fast as he could from the accursed tower, but he never could outrun the demons within his own head. They mocked him even now with words he had spoken to his own children, with the things he had done for his children, children that hadn’t cared for them, had hated him for them. Did they not see that all he had done, he had done for them?

His children were all he had left after Lyarra died. He would have done anything to protect them, even give his own life if needed. Rickard had hated the feeling of helplessness that had been within him when he had been attacked in King’s Landing, when he had been dragged before the court bloodied and bruised, his retinue’s bodies already lining the streets behind him, their heads gracing the spikes on the walls. He had hated it even more when they had dragged his Brandon before him, his eldest son, his firstborn, his Wild Wolf, yet his dutiful wolf.

He had understood the value of the pack. He had lived for the pack. He had killed for the pack. He had died for the pack.

When he had died Rickard had taken up the banners of his son’s cause. He had sworn to avenge him, and sworn within to rescue his daughter. When he captured Rhaegar however, Rhaegar had received the first inkling that something was wrong. He had sworn that he had not kidnapped Lyanna. Rickard hadn’t believed him, he didn’t want to believe him.

The memories though ran through his mind though at the time, memories of the wild girl who loudly protested against her betrothal to Robert Baratheon. Had she fled he had wondered. No, he had told himself, she knew of the value of the pack, she knew of the White Wolf. She would not have betrayed the pack in such a way.

So Rickard had gotten to searching with his White Raven, winging his way from King’s Landing to the Shield Islands, to Harrenhall to Starfall. It was on his flight home that he had first noticed the little obscure tower tucked into the Red Mountains. Rickard wouldn’t have spared it a second glance if his raven’s caught the flash of white steel, of starsteel. Only one man in the Dorne had a Starsteel blade.

So Rickard had winged his way to the tower, but he had never been able to gather the courage to enter the halls and verify the truth of Rhaegar’s statement for himself. He didn’t want to know if she had betrayed the pack, he didn’t want to believe she would betray the pack.

But she had.

And Brandon had lost his life because of it. And Eddard had lost his innocence because of it. And Benjen had lost his laugh because of it.

And Rickard himself had lost his face because of it.

She hadn’t cared though, she hadn’t realised what she had done. He hadn’t seen her in twelve months, and the first words she had uttered to him were “You killed Rhaegar.”

It wasn’t uttered in a relived way either, it was uttered as an accusation, as if Rickard was to blame for all the woes that had befallen the pack. The pack was broken. The pack had turned on each other, and Rickard was ashamed to say he after she had spoken to him his heart had hardened to her.

She was a young girl, a voice in his head said, a young girl manipulated by a silver tongued prince.

Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. But she was dead now, and the Dragons had fallen. The ink was dry, and the men who had fought and bled and died for her actions were now resigned to the deathbed of history.

A foolish girl had run away with an already married man and married him as well. Westeros had paid the bride price in corpses, yet those who had demanded the cost didn’t even care.

Rickard had lost close friends in this war. His lords had lost fathers, brothers and sons, and the first words the one who they were fighting to get back uttered to him was “you killed Rhaegar.”

As if what he had done was the wrong thing. He had killed The Last Dragon to avenge his son and her brother, a man who had loved her so much that he had ridden off to fight a prince for her. A gift she never appreciated.

Rickard’s horse began to pant with exertion and Rickard realised he didn’t know where he was. Dusty mountains towered around him, and he looked back the way he had come, but he oculdnt see anything he had recognised. He closed his eyes and got a glance of the pass he was in from the eyes of his White Rave that was flying somewhere above him.

To the south was a long pillar of smoke and to the North Rickard could see the rolling pastures of the Reach. He saw movement on the shelf above him and noticed three men dressed like bandits crouching behind a rock, one holding a bow, the other wielding spears.

Rickard opened his eyes and his face contorted into a grin. This was what he needed. He needed to spill some blood, to take out his roiling emotions with his greatsword. He spurred his horse forward and away from the eyes of the Dornishmen. As he rode Rickard noticed flashes of steel along the ridge where they were hiding as they followed him.

It seemed these pit vipers wanted to play. Well he would show them how a wolf hunts it’s prey. What match was a viper compared to a wolf?

The Burnt Lord was patient, playing a game of mouse with his Dornish pursuers. No doubt they thought they were driving him further to his death, but little did they know that this lpne traveller had more bite than bark.

They had been playing the same game for almost an hour when the Dornishmen tired of the game and chose to attack.

One of the ones with the spear ran ahead of him and appeared in front of his path, stopping Rickard from going further. Rickard’s cowl was up, his horrible burns hidden. This man would have no clue who had killed him until Rickard was close enough to bite him with his own blade.

“Greetings!” The Dornishman drawled as he stepped forward, his spear held at his side, though it wasn’t held defensively. That was his first mistake.

“Greetings,” Rickard rasped back. “What is a lone traveller doing in these mountains may I ask? I’ve heard that these mountains are filled with bandits wanting to rob you of your gold.”

The bandit laughed. “Those bandits know better than to mess than me.” The Dornishman’s eyes glanced to where his friend with the bow sat. His second mistake. Rickard saw the moment in the man’s eyes when his friend loosed the arrow, saw it in the way his eyes tightened and his lips pursed. So Rickard moved, as fast as the wolf that ran on his banner. The arrow plunged past where his heart had been merely seconds before. His friend had missed. It was his third mistake. And his last.

With a hollow laugh, Rickard Stark drew his Valyrian steel sword. The Dornishman gasped when he saw the blade, “That’s-“

“Valyrian Steel.” Rickard confirmed as he threw back the cowl of his cloak. “I must thank you for this. I needed to kill something and I’m sorry that you were unlucky enough to be the ones to draw my wrath on this day. I cannot promise that your death will be quick, but I can promise that you will be killed by a great man wielding a great sword. It is a death that even kings can be content at.”

The Dornishman gasped in horror and turned to run. Rickard rode him down and struck his legs out from beneath him. The man tumbled to the desert floor screemaing in agony as his lifeblood poured out of the cut in his legs. Another arrow whizzed by his head and Rickard turned to see the archer nocking another arrow, while the spearman charged at him screaming a battle cry known only to the gods.

Rickard turned his horse around and charged back up the hill to attack the spearman. With a single sweep of his sword the head of the spear was cut from the stuff, rendering the man’s weapon next to useless. To the man’s eternal credit he did not shirk and instead spun the wooden staff around and attacked again. Rickard caught the staff in his gauntlet clad fist, before wrenching it from the man’s fist. For the man’s courage Rickard rewarded him with a quick death. With a single stroke of Ice, the man’s head was parted from his shoulders and his body crumpled to the floor lifeless.

Rickard turned to the last man who threw down his bow and turned to run. Rickard plucked his black knife, the one he had used to kill Rhaegar, from his belt and hurled it at the fleeing man. It struck him between the shoulder blades, and like his friend that lay behind him, fell to the floor screaming in agony.

Rickard trotted back to the man who had confronted him first, and swung from his saddle. He landed on the balls of his feet, his bloodied sword still clutched in his hands.

The Dornishman turned his head and looked up at Rickard with fear in his eyes. “Please!” He sobbed. “We weren’t going to kill you! We were just going to take your horse and gold!”

“You weren’t going to kill me?” Rickard asked. “But you admit you were going to take my horse and gold, and leave me in the middle of the desert with no way out. I think I would have died regardless and it would have been a more painful death than the one you are about to receive.”

“Please!” The man begged but Rickard was done with listening. His sword flashed down and the man’s foot detached from his leg. The sword rose and fell again another three times, and when Rickard was done the man was missing all his feet and hands, blood pouring out of the stumps. He would not be living much longer. Already his eyes had turned glassy and his skin pale.

Rickard sighed and wiped his sword clean on the man’s dirty tunic. He turned and retrieved his dagger from the archer’s back before remounting his horse. Before he could leave however, he heard the drum of hooves on the desert floor.

Did the bandits have friends nearby?

Rickard raised his sword preparing to fight when around the corner of the pass came a great White Hart, ridden by a familiar figure clad in bronze and steel and wielding a brilliant white and red blade.

Rickard sighed and lowered his blade, sheathing and strapping it onto his back once more. Wordlessly, Roderick trotted next to him and waited for Rickard to finish strapping his sword to his back. Together the two men rode out from the pass together, out of Dorne and into the Reach, the lands of summer, where Winter’s grasp rarely reached.

Winter had reached them in this war though. They had lost a quarter of their armies, and of that quarter four fifths were because of Ned, The Stranger’s Wolf.

It was a good name, albeit a southern one. Rickard wondered what the Northern lords would call his son. Hopefully something just as warlike. Ned was already far too peaceful for Rickard’s liking. It had been a mistake to foster him in the Vale, just like it had been a mistake to betroth Brandon to Catelyn Tully.

Rickard had made many mistakes in the last few years, but if there was oen thing he had done right it was this war, the one they were calling Rickard’s Rebellion. Rickard doubted anyone would challenge House Stark for a good while yet. The memories of this war were still fresh in the minds of the southern lords, and if by some chance, they happened to forget, there was an eternal monument outside of the gates of King’s Landing warning of drawing the direwolf’s wrath.

The two men rode in silence as they pondered where the last twelve months had taken them. It had been a worn road, but a hard road nonetheless. War came for them all in the end, and this one just happened to be more destructive than most. A destruction caused by the love of two fools.

“We argued.” Rickard admitted to Roderick after a while. “She said she hated me for what I had done. She called me a murderer and a monster.”

Roderick looked back emotionlessly, without judgment and for that Rickard appreciated his presence all the more.

_Rickard climbed the steps, his heart pounding in his chest. He stopped at the same door Ned had and together father and son entered the room of his daughter._

_The first thing he noticed when he entered the room was the stench of death. Blood stained the bed upon which Lyanna lay, and her skin was pale, though her grey still burned fiercely when they met his gaze._

_“You killed him.” Was the first thing she said to him. “You killed Rhaegar.” She said accusingly._

_Rickard swallowed. Of all the greetings he had been expecting that hadn’t been one of them. He glanced around the room and saw a cradle in the corner. His heart stopped in his chest. No. He went to go over but Lyanna shrieked in horror. “No!” She cried. “Get out! Stay away from her!”_

_Rickard ignored his daughter’s cries and peered over the edge of the cradle. Rickard didn’t know how to feel when he saw the babe was dead. Behind him Lyanna continued to sob and scream in anger at him._

_He turned around slowly, thoughts of Brandon charging into the Red Keep filling his mind._

_“Your brother died for you.” He said hollowly. Lyanna didn’t respond just continued to glare at him. “You brother died for you.” Rickard repeated._

_“It should have been you!” Lyanna whispered hatefully and next to her Ned gasped._

_Rickard felt anger surge through him and before he knew what he was doing he strode over to the bed and slapped her hard. The crack of his palm hitting her cheek, echoed in the surprise silence that filled the room._

_Suddenly everyone began yelling and Rickard couldn’t stand to be in that room anymore. He fled down the steps, and stumbled out into the light. He needed to flee, to get away from this place of death and despair._


	66. Return To King's Landing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Co return to King's Landing.

**Eddard:**

The Salty Wolf glided across the smooth waters of blackwater bay, the walls of King’s Landing looming closer and closer. Eddard Stark stood at the prow alone, watching as the city drew closer.

Ned hated this city. Even now, from far away as he was he could smell it. It hung heavily in the air like a noxious cloud poisoning those who got too close. Ned didn’t see how anyone could bear to stand it. The Wintercity never smelled like this. The Wintercity smelt of pine smoke and snow. It smelt fresh.

This place just smelt like shit.

This was a Targaryen place. Red walls, black soil. Stark’s did not belong here. Starks belonged in the Wintercity where the grey stone walls clashed with the snow that fell upon the surrounding fields. Red and Black, White and Grey. Clean and fresh, dirty and stagnant. The two cities were as different as night and day, and reflected the houses that controlled them. Ned couldn’t wait until he was back in the Wintercity, the cool winds blowing across his face, the snow falling in his hair and the hot springs bubbling in the godswood.

The yells of the sailors and the creak of the oars provided Ned with a welcomed distraction from his thoughts of home. He needed to be thinking of the now, especially without his father here.

He had last seen his father six weeks ago when he had stormed out of the Tower of Joy in a black rage, a rage that wasn’t all that unjustified if Ned was honest. Ned had no clue where the man had gone, back to Winterfell perhaps, but Roderick had never returned either so he was most probably safe.

Ned turned from the prow and made his way down the length of the ship to the poop deck where Beron Saltstark sat with Davos Seaworth discussing matters of sailing. The two of them had not had an easy time within the desert. They were men that were more used to ships than horses. The two were loyal though, and Ned had appreciated their services all the more.

“How long?” He called to them, and Beron shifted his gaze from the docks to Ned. “Fifteen minutes perhaps?”

Ned nodded. Davos stood up suddenly and held Beron’s myrish spyglass to his eye. “Look!” He exclaimed, “On the docks!”

Ned turned to the docks, but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary at this distance. Beron took the spyglass and held it to his eye. His hands altered when he noticed what Davos had seen, before turning and handing the spy glass to Ned. Ned raised the looking glass to his eye and peered down the lense. To his great surprise he saw his father waiting on the docks for him, with Roderick Walton by his side, though he had forgone his distinctive bronze and steel armour for more plain brown leather armour.

Ned’s heart began pumping in his chest, and he thought back to the last time he had seen him.

_Ned climbed the steps to the tower and rushed inside. Inside, lying upon a bed of blood, was his little sister, the woman who Brandon had stormed into King’s Landing for. “Ned…” She whispered as he collapsed next to her. “You came.”_

_“Of course I came.” Ned said with a sad smile._

_“Where is papa?” Lyanna asked. Ned turned his head, and if he heard his name, his father burst in the door. He stopped the second, he entered the room and stared at the bloody sheets upon which Lyanna lay, an expression of apoplectic rage across his features._

_“Papa?” Lyanna whispered weakly. “I’m sorry.”_

_Rickard Stark just continued to stare in horror at the bloody sheets, his expression unreadable._

_“Papa?” Lyanna asked louder. This seemed to stir Rickard Stark from whatever trance he had been in and he turned his gaze to his daughters face. He said nothing, and Lyanna must have felt obliged to fill the silence._

_“You killed him.” She said simply. “You killed Rhaegar.” Though this time there was a hint of sadness in her whispered tones. Ned winced. That may have not been the best thing to say._

_Rickard Stark’s frozen gaze moved around the room, and his eyes befell upon a cradle that Ned had not noticed before. Ned swallowed. Oh Lyanna, what had you done?_

_“No!” Lyanna cried out suddenly. “Get out! Stay away from her!”_

_Rickard Stark continued to walk forwards, and stopped at the edge of the cradle. He looked down and paused staring down at the baby for a minute._

_“Please!” Lyanna cried, “She’s all I have left! Leave her alone! I want her! Give her back to me!”_

_Lyanna broke down into another round of sobbing and Rickard Stark turned around, a hollow look within his eyes._

_“You brother died for you.” He said. Lyanna’s sobs quietened and she glared at her father, and Ned’s heart sunk. What was wrong with these two? They had just fought a war to protect the pack. Why were they tearing it apart even now?_

_“Your brother died for you.” Rickard Stark said louder, harsher. His harsher tone did nothing to calm down Lyanna, instead it only seemed to draw her ire._

_“It should have been you.” She snarled, showing the wolfsblood that had gotten her in so much trouble in the first place._

_Rickard Stark’s gaze turned hard and he strode over to the bed purposefully. Before Ned even relaised what he was doing, his hand came crashing down upon Lyanna’s cheek._

_The crack of his palm against her cheek echoed within the space around them. Then everyone began to scream and yell at once, but Rickard Stark wasn’t listening, instead he just turned and ran down the stairs, leaving Ned to deal with the aftermath of a dying sister with a dead babe._

Ned stirred from his thoughts as the boat pulled into the narrow pier, and the dockhand morred it. A gangplank was lowered and Ned’s father strode up the gangplank and onto the deck. Ned nodded with his head to the door to his cabins, and Rickard Stark followed as he walked across.

The second both were inside and the door was shut, Ned swung his fist at his father’s face. Hard.

Rickard Stark fell to the floor, and ned shook his fist out, wincing from the pain. “That was for leaving me to deal with a dead sister by myself.”

Rickard nodded sadly. “I deserved that.” He acknowledged.

“You deserve a lot worse!” Ned snarled, and Rickard nodded once more. “You are right.” He said. “What I did was wrong.”

Ned nodded, not fully satisfied, but Ned knew that was as much as he would ever get from his father. “Now.” Ned said as he sat down at the table. “How are we going to deal with Robert?”

Rickard Stark sat down across from him, and pulled closer the wine jug. “What do you need from him?”

“I’m taking Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent north with me. I want them to be released from their oaths, and protected from assassins.”

Rickard Stark whistled lowly to Ned’s annoyance. “No one is going to like that.” He said. “They are going to have to be punished. You need to compromise with him.”

Ned nodded, seeing the wisdom of his father’s statement. “What should we offer?”

“Have them stripped of their knighthoods.” Rickard replied “And perhaps have them serve for a while on the wall.”

Ned nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

“Anything else?” Rickard asked.

Ned hesitated before bringing up his next point. “I want Robert to apologise to Beron for what he said.”

“Don’t bother.” Rickard replied almost immediately. “You know Robert better than I ever will. Tell me now. Is he the sort of man to admit when he was wrong and back down?”

Ned hesitated, but he knew the answer. “No.” He admitted begrudgingly.

“No.” Rickard confirmed. “He will swing his hammer before he will ever apologise. That is just the way he does things. Leave that be. Now if that is all we have a king to meet.”

 

**Rickard**

They entered the Red Keep a party of 19 men, one woman and one babe. Arthur Dayne himself was cradling the babe, Rickard’s first grandson, Jon. He was a beautiful little babe that had almost brought Rickard to tears the first time he had seen him.

He could see his wife, his beautiful Lyarra Stark in the boy’s features. He saw it in the set of the boy’s brow, and he loved him all the more for it.

Rickard’s heart had been shattered when his son was taken from him. Rickard’s heart had been mended when his son had placed his grandson in his arms. Just looking at the boy, Rickard could tell he was destined for greatness, especially with the circumstances of his parent’s betrothal before the gods. Rickard had spoken to Howland Reed himself on what he had seen that night and the man had been in awe when he spoke of it. It gave him hope for his grandson. Perhaps this was the White Wolf the North had been waiting for.

Perhaps he would be the one to deliver them what they yearned for the most. Their freedom.

The babe was playing with the straps of Arthur Dayne’s armour and the great knight was grinning down at the babe stupidly.

What an idiot, Rickard thought as he rolled his eyes before turning his gaze back to the king who sat upon the Iron Throne.

Robert Baratheon, first of his name, lounged upon the Iron Throne, with his Great War hammer resting across his lap. Upon his head sat his newly forged crown, a gaudy dolden mass of entwined antlers and yellow jewels. It was the crown of a counselling king, not one that had gained his throne on the battlefield. It was a soft crown for a soft man.

“Ned!” The King called in delight as he rose from his throne. “You’re back!”

The King’s eyes shifted to Ned’s left where Ashara Dayne clung to him, and his eyes darkened. “I see you brought your whore.” He muttered loudly, and many within ear shit gasped, though Rickard noticed Tywin looking immensely amused.

Let him laugh. He who laughs last laughs longest. Rickard would be laughing last in the end.

To Ashara’s credit, she did not even bat an eyelid at the king’s insult. Ned though, scowled darkly and glared at his friend. He had clearly taken offence to what he had said.

Robert’s eyes drifted past Ned and his wife to where the Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent lurked, toying with little Jon. His mouth twisted into a sneer, and then his hands trembled when he saw what they were playing with.

“Dragonspawn!” He roared as he leapt up from his throne and vaulted down the steps and towards the two kingsguard. “I’ll kill him myself! The rapespawn!”

Rickard realised what Robert was about to do merely seconds before he got there, and as such watched in horror as Robert swung his hammer at Arthur Dayne and the babe in his grasp. Arthur was caught unaware and caught between protecting the babe and himself. Everyone was too slow, and to Rickard it seemed as though the hammer was descending in slow motion. Was this what Rhaegar had felt like when he had watched Rickard stab him with the knife? Did time move this slowly for all?

And then a Starsteel blade flashed in the air and crashed into the hammer, deflecting it away from the defenceless knight and the babe he carried. It smashed into the floor and caused cracks to appear in the stones. Then Roderick Walton went on the offensive, and not for the first time was Rickard awed by the skill of the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. He drove Robert back across the throne room, his blade hewing out chunks of Roberts hammer. Robert finally fell before Roderick with a bellow of rage as Roderick tripped him.

Roderick lunged and paused with his blade hovering centimetres from the kings throat. “Should I kill him Lord Stark?” Roderick asked without shifting his gaze, and Rickard felt the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes come to rest on his burnt figure.

Rickard tilted his head thoughtfully, considering his options. More than one of the lords present looked concerned with the display Roderick had just shown, none more so than Lord Varys. Rickard felt his gaze darken as he beheld the spymaster. He was on his list.

Rickard strode forward slowly, his sword still in his grasp. He beheld the gaze of the king, who trembled with rage. Rickard smiled. He couldn not begrudge a man rage. He knew it better than anyone.

“Do you know what happened to the last king who tried to harm my blood?” Rickard rasped.

Robert glared at him. “Ser Jamie slew with him.”

Rickard nodded. “He did. He died. Painfully. I know. I watched.”

Rickard spun around, his smoky sword flashing in the light. “The next person to attempt to harm my blood will face the same fate as Rhaegar. Am I clear?” He roared.

The Lords and Ladies present nodded their ascent and mumbled plaintives, clearly meant to appease him. Rickard turned his gaze back to the king. “Am I clear?” He asked Robert.

Robert nodded, his face puce.

“Good.” Rickard said, and he sheathed his sword, before stepping back to his son’s side.

A glance at his son told him how furious he was. Rickard almost wanted to smile. Almost.

Robert got to his feet, but Ned was upon him, and punched him hard across the jaw. “You just tried to kill my son!” He roared at the king.

“Your son?” Robert asked, and then he took another look at the babe. He saw the dark hair, grey eyes and sombre expression and realised what he had done.

His face fell. “Ned!” He cried as his son turned and strode away. “I’m sorry! Forgive me Ned!”

“NO!” Ned roared. “We are leaving.”

“No!” Rickard called and once again he felt the weight of the court’s gaze upon him. “I still have a boon to ask of you! I will have it on this day!”

“Boon?” Robert scoffed. “Lyanna is dead! You got your boon! She didn’t marry me!”

“No.” Rickard replied, “But you never gave me justice for Elia Martell’s murderers. I still have that boon to use.”

Robert almost snarled but then his gaze upon a furious Ned and his rage wilted. “Very well.” He said, “Ask of you boon and it shall be granted.”

“Peace.” Rickard replied.

“Peace?” Robert asked.

“Yes.” Rickard replied. “You will agree to the terms of my peace treaty or my troops will be marching south once more, except this time they will be throwing you from the throne and not putting you on it.”

The throne room exploded into roars as the Lords and Ladies present realised what Rickard Stark had just said.

**Tywin:**

The King and Rickard Stark had left the throne room alone. Where they had gone, nobody knew. Rickard Stark had demanded the king meet with him alone though, leaving his son, good-daughter and grandson stewing in the throne room. His son, Eddard Stark, looked positively furious, and his hands were clenching around the hilt of his sword. Arthur Dayne looked no less murderous, though in the confusion of what had happened most had forgotten he was actually there, along with Ser Oswell Whent.

That turned Tywin’s mind to the other notable warrior in the room. The man dressed in light leathers that wielded the Starsteel blade. Life wasn’t fair to the Lannisters. The Stark’s already had a Valyrian Steel blade, and now they had a Starsteel blade too?

That was not right. Tywin wondered if he could perhaps buy the Starsteel blade off the man.

The man turned his gaze to Tywin and glared at him. Inwardly Tywin sighed. Most probably not. Starks and their damned loyalty.

The door behind the Iron Throne slammed open and a very pleased looking Robert Baratheon strode out, The Burnt Lord following in his wake.

Though Rickard Stark looked annoyed, Tywin saw the mirth dancing in his eyes. Clearly Robert Baratheon had just been outwitted by one of the oldest tricks in the game. This was not good.

Robert strode purposely up the steps of the Iron Throne, his feet clanging on the metal. He reached the top and turned around, before addressing the court.

“On this day, I negotiated a very favourable peace treaty with my northernmost kingdom, the lands ruled by the Starks. I and Rickard Stark have agreed to the following terms.”

Robert rolled out a bit of parchment from within his breast pocket, befor clearing his throat loudly.

“Firstly, the Crown will pay the North 200,000 golden dragons, to be distributed evenly amongst the great houses of the North. They will also pay House Stark 200,000 golden dragons for their services and sacrifices throughout Rickard’s Rebellion.”

Low murmuring filled the hall, but Tywin wasn’t impressed. It was a lot of money, but not for a Lannister.

“Secondly, no taxes will be enforced upon any Northern goods until such a time as determined by Rickard Stark, or his death.”

Tywin’s eyebrows rose on his head. Now that was an incredibly generous term of peace. One that would benefit the North, and do little to benefit anyone else.

“Thirdly, The North shall always have a permanent position on the small council only to be held by a Northern in whatever capacity the head of House Stark wishes them to serve. They shall also have a permanent position upon the kingsguard, once again determined by the head of House Stark.”

Tywin’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. This would give the North, and by proxy the Starks, a level of control over the seven kingdoms for the entirety of Robert’s rule and for however long his sons wished to continue the tradition. One thing would be for certain though, Tywin would do all he could to reverse it.

“Fourthly, the New Gift shall be returned to the jurisdiction of House Stark effective immediately. The Stark’s shall also have exclusive rights to the lands, incomes, resources and peoples living beyond the Wall.”

Tywin nodded. At least this was a term to be expected. The North had always resented losing the New Gift. Though the second point, showed Rickard Stark’s plans for the years to come. Clearly he hoped to colonise the lands beyond the wall.

“Fifthly, every house within the seven kingdoms shall fulfil their duties to the Night’s Watch. Any house who does not fulfil their duties will have the offending lord sent to the Wall to swear the oaths. This shall be policed by the Starks.”

This was bad Tywin thought. Very bad.

“Sixth. The North, and the Starks have the right to act against foreign entities without permission from the crown. They have the right to build and maintain as large a navy and army as they please and the right to exert these forces in overseas conflicts.”

Gods, Tywin thought as his heart began to race. This would make the North into a true superpower, leagues ahead of every other kingdom within Westeros. It make them nigh invincible to southern interference with their affairs.

“Seven. The North shall also have the right to sign trade and commerce deals with foreign entities, once again without the crowns permission. They shall also have the right to legitimise their own bastards, though this must be done with the permission of the head of house Stark.”

Tywin struggled to keep a straight face. This was more power than had even been given to Dorne, and Dorne had never been defeated like the North had.

“Finally,” Robert said as he glanced down to Rickard Stark, “The North has the right to declare independence from the Iron Throne whenever the head of house Stark sees fit. Rickard Stark has sownr however that he will not cede from the Seven Kingdoms until after my death, and indeed may never cede from the seven kingdoms.”

Tywin paled as his own words came back to haunt him.

He heard footsteps and turned to see Rickard Stark approaching him. The Burnt Lord leaned in close and grasped him by the arm. “Now we’ll see if my grandson will bow to yours.”

With that, The Burnt Lord turned and walked away, the retinue that had entered the throne room with him, following in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't clear by the end of this chapter, Rickard's memories of the Tower of Joy were distorted.
> 
> Also, just an explanation of why Jon is not Lyanna’s son in this story. With Aegon living he is not the heir to the throne. Therefore there is no point to him being a Targaryen, and I can make a much better story out of him being the heir to the North and linked to house Dayne. Thanks to those of you who supported my decision even though some of you didn’t like it! I appreciate all your comments so keep them coming!


	67. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard and Ned arrive back at Winterfell! Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

**Ned:**

Ned galloped up the Kingsroad, the gates of Winterfell rapidly growing larger in the distance. He could see the towers of the Wolfhold, and beyond them the crenulations of Winterfell itself. The weather was glorious. The sun was shining in the sky, the air was frigid but still, and the snow blanketed everything around them. It was stunningly beautiful, the home that Ned had spent many a night dreaming of.

A horse shot past him, with a purple cloak billowing in the wind. Ashara’s laugh carried on the air down to Ned and Ned couldn’t help the grin that burst out across his features. He was home! Home with the woman he loved. He would finally be able to show her everything they had whispered of at Harrenhall. The sombre godswood within Winterfell, the hot springs that littered the city and the baths within Winterfell itself. He would be able to take her to the top of the first keep, and down into the depths of the crypts. Together they would be able to forge the life they had dreamed of back beneath the burned towers of Harrenhall.

Ned kicked his horse’s sides and it shot forwards, faster, trying to catch up to the bewitching woman who raced ahead of them. To Ned’s delight his great warhorse began to pick up speed and eventually thundered past Ashara’s horse. He caught sight of her crestfallen expression and burst out laughing, before pulling his horse to a stop just before they reached the gates.

Ashara’s horse pulled up not long after and Ned grinned at her as she pulled to a stop next to him. She scowled at him. “It was the all the snow. My poor horse isn’t used to such cold weather.”

“Of course.” Ned conceded, though the smug look on his face suggested otherwise.

She eyed him out of the corner of her eye for a minute, before turning her gaze back down the cobbled kingsroad to where the rest of Rickard Stark’s retinue came.

Howland Reed had left them at The Saltsmaw though, returning to the crannogs of the Neck. Davos Seaworth and Beron Saltstark had also left them at Saltsmaw, Beron back to sailing the waters of the Bite, and Davos to his new keep with his wife and children. Davos Seaworth was a lord now, and in a few years his children would be called to the Wolfhold, to attend Jon Stark, Ned’s son and heir to Winterfell.

Rickard Stark appeared on the horizon now, guarded by the ever present Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, Roderick Walton, and the captain of his household guard, Martyn Cassel. Behind him came a retinue of Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors, guarding the carriages that carried Jon Stark and his wetnurse as well. Behind them rode the disgraced knights, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent. They had largely kept to themselves for the duration of the journey, though strangely Ethan Glover and Oswell Whent had struck up a friendship.

Ethan had all but loathed the man until they had gotten into a drunken fistfight at the inn of the kneeling man. After four black eyes, five missing teeth and a broken jaw, the two had spent a lot of time together and often went off hunting together. The two of them had proven able hunters and often brought back the dinner for that evening.

Arthur Dayne had done next to nothing except practice his swordplay whenever they stopped. It had gotten worrying after a while, and Ned had said something to Ashara but she had pursed her lips and shook her head. He was angry she said and working through it the only way he knew how.

The next day Ned had sent Roderick Walton to spar with the man. Arthur had been less broody after that, but still spent many of his days muttering darkly. The only person who could lift him from his mood every time was little Jon. Arthur absolutely adored his nephew and spent many days when they were moving sitting in the carriage with him. Jon it seemed, adored his uncle as well, for he never failed to smile when his uncle entered the room.

Rickard Stark had been the only other person who was able to draw laughter from the babe, but Ned had no idea how. They had met Beron Stark’s bastard son at the Saltsmaw, Torrhen Snow, and he had burst into tears at the mere sight of him.

Ned’s father had also been largely quiet for the duration of the trip, and Ned often caught him staring north, muttering about three eyed ravens. It had been strange, but Rickard Stark had changed greatly since he was burned. No more was he the man who Ned had gone to for hugs when he had nightmares. He was The Burnt Lord now.

The retinue reached the gates and Rickard glanced at his son. “Who won?” he asked.

“I did.” Ned said. “Ashara couldn’t keep up with our Northern horses.”

Rickard grunted. “I would have been surprised if she could. My grandfather spent thousands of dragons on that bloody horse breeding program.”

Together, they entered the Wintercity, the conquering Stark’s returning home, Rickard Stark having swindled the south of pretty much any power they once had over them. Ned had felt bad seeing his father manipulate his friend’s love for him, but then he remembered his demands to kill Jon and his heart hardened.

They passed through the gates of Winterfell, and into the city proper. It seemed as if the entire city had turned out to see their homecoming. Crowds lined the clean streets and Ned breathed in deeply. A city that didn’t smell like shit. It was glorious.

“Stark! Stark! Stark!” The crowds chanted while on the walls the Snowcloaks rattled their spears against their shields. Their bronze armour glinted in the sun and Ned smiled. Home he was and home he would stay. He had no intention of ever leaving here again.

The retinue made their way through the cities winding streets, and came upon the gates of Winterfell itself. They passed through, and Ned’s heart caught in his chest.

Standing there, with the household assembled before him was his little brother, Benjen. Gone were his laughing eyes, and in their place a sombre haunted spectre. Ned and his father dismounted and Benjen dropped to his knees. “Father.” He said. “Winterfell is yours.”

Rickard Stark smiled down at the boy and pulled him to his feet. “Up Benjen. You have served me well. You shall be rewarded.”

Benjen got to his feet and smiled at Ned sadly. “Hello brother.”

Ned pushed his way past his father and enveloped his little brother in a bear hug. “I’ve missed you.” Ned whispered hoarsely.

“Me too.” Benjen replied and Ned felt his little brother’s body begin to quiver. He glanced at his father who dismissed the rest of the household. “Let’s go to my solar.” He said. “We have much to discuss.”

 

**Rickard:**

Rickard stepped back into his solar, a room he hadn’t seen in over a year. His large ebony desk still dominated the room, while on the floor rested the same snow bear pelt. His bookshelves were crowded with the records and documents of the last 284 years and Rickard’s gaze fell upon the red book that sat on a pedestal. He would have to update that soon. Rickard’s Rebellion needed to be recorded.

Hidden away, behind a tapestry of Brandon Snow in the godswood, sat the secret room where the Bloody Book and the Blessed Book where kept. Rickard resisted the urge to go and check the room. He had people with him. That would be far from proper. He had already violated more of the Bloody Sanctions than any other lord of Winterfell before him. He had no wish to violate any more.

He stepped into the room and threw a log on the crackling hearth. The flames soared and warmth filled the room. Rickard strode around and sat down in his plush chair, while his sons and good-daughter entered the room, the latter a bit hesitantly.

“Take a seat.” He said as he gestured to the chairs that were arrayed in front of his desk and his children did so.

Rickard reached over and poured them all ale, before taking a long swig of his own. He would need this for the conversation he was about to have.

“To Brandon.” He toasted as he raised his mug.

“To Brandon.” The three repeated.

“To Lyanna.” Rickard said softly.

“To Lyanna.” The three repeated.

Rickard drained the rest of his cup and slammed it down upon his desk. “Right.” He said. “We need to have a talk.”

Benjen nodded. “What happened to Lyanna?” He asked.

Rickard’s face twisted in agony. “She died in childbirth.”

Benjen’s face crumpled. “And the babe?” He asked.

“Dead.” Rickard replied and his heart went out to his youngest son. He had been the closest to Lyanna he knew, the two had spent all their time together. “What of Winterfell?” Rickard asked. “What happened here?”

“With our armies south, production suffered, particularly in the cities. The lands North of Winterfell, remained largely unaffected however. We received the Tully children, including a pregnant Catelyn Tully. She gave birth a month ago to a boy she named Robb. She survived, though the maester and green men have confirmed she will never bear children again. Something about her travels while pregnant. I also received Elia Martell according to your instructions. I sent her and her children on to Mount Starpoint. Then our armies returned North, were paid and sent home. The Winter Wolves are also sending some men North of the Wall to end a wildling band that has been raiding the gift recently.”

“You’ve done well Benjen.” Rickard said as he smiled at his son. Benjen nodded sadly. “I have a favour to ask father.”

“What is it?” Rickard asked.

“I want to join the Night’s Watch.”

“No.” Rickard replied.

“No?” Benjen asked with a look of anger on his face. “Why not?”

“I have plans for you.”

“Plans for me?” Benjen exclaimed. “I’m not going to be one of your pawns like Lyanna and Brandon were!”

“No.” Rickard replied tersely, “You’re not. If you don’t like my plans then you can join the watch. I think however that you will like my plans for you.”

“What are they?” Benjen asked suspiciously.

Rickard nodded to the bookshelf. “Can you get me the blue book with the white bindings on the bottom shelf?”

Benjen did so and returned with the book in his arms. He went to hand it to Rickard, but Rickard shook his head. “Read the title.”

Benjen glanced down and his eyes widened in surprise. “The Winter Kingdom – Beyond The Wall.”

“Those plans were written up by Cregan Stark himself upon his return from the South. If you will have it Benjen, I will name you Lord Beyond the Wall, and build you a castle and village upon the ruins of Hardhome.” Rickard said as he watched his son. “I am planning to set up four Lordships beyond the wall, one on the Frozen Shore, one in the Skirling Pass and another on the Fist of the First Men. Over all of these Lordships I would name you Lord Paramount, and set you up at Hardhome. You would be the first Lord Beyond the Wall since the Wall was built.”

“I will be Lord Beyond the Wall?” Benjen asked incredulously.

“You will be.” Rickard confirmed. “I spoke to Lord Commander Qorgyle a few years ago about it and he agreed to send some men to help set you up as well and familiarise you and your men with the surrounding lands.”

Benjen was silent for a logn while, staring in awe at the book down in his hands.

“So?” Rickard asked. “Will you accept and become the first Lord Beyond the Wall in 10,000 years or will you join the Night’s Watch?”

“I will be Lord Beyond the Wall!” Benjen exclaimed enthusiastically and clasped the book to his chest.

“Good.” Rickard replied. “Now take a seat. There is more that we need to talk about.”

Benjen did so, though he struggled to keep the smile off his face.

Rickard sighed before turning his gaze to Ned. “Ned,” He said, “You will be Lord of Winterfell sooner than you think. I plan to step down from my duties as of tomorrow. You will become Lord of Winterfell.”

“You plan to step down?” Ned exclaimed. “What for?”

“I need some time to clear my head. I’ve been talking to the Green Men as well. Something has happened. A dam was broken when your brother did what he did. I need to find out what happened.”

“No!” Ned exclaimed. “I will do that! You can be Lord of Winterfell!”

Rickard shook his head. “No Ned.” He replied. “On the morrow you will be Lord of Winterfell.”

He held up a hand when Ned went to protest. “No.” He said. “My decision is made.”

Rickard looked both Ned and Ashara in the eye. “As the new Lord and Lady of Winterfell, there is much you nned to know and learn.” Rickard sighed. “I have so little time to tell you, but what I don’t tell you the stewards and other lords will be able to help you with.”

Ned nodded, though his face looked tense. Ashara was much better at keeping her features under control, and Rickard admired the girl. She would make a good Lady of Winterfell.

“You know how to play the game.” Rickard said to Ashara. “Everything you think you know about the game is wrong. You need to unlearn the way you learnt to play it.”

“What game?” Ned asked and Ashara just smiled at him and patted his hand. “Don’t worry.” She said. “I know what he’s talking about.”

“The Northern way of playing is to not play at all. There are strict rules about what you can and cannot do as Lord of Winterfell. They are written down in the Bloody Sanctions that you already know of Ned. You will need to show them to Ashara eventually. She needs to know them.”

Ned nodded and Rickard turned back to Ashara. “You must read the Bloody Sanctions. You must know them. I have already broken the Bloody Sanctions. You two cannot afford to break them as well. It would spell disaster for the empire we have worked for since we lost our crown.”

Ashara nodded and Rickard turned back to his youngest son. “Benjen, leave us.” Rickard commanded and his son obeyed. When the door had closed shut behind him, Rickard turned back to the two who were left.

“What I am about to tell you must never leave this room.” Rickard said sternly and both of them nodded.

Rickard observed them for a moment before reaching into his robes and removing a plain iron key. He handed it to Ned who looked at it, confused. “What is this?” He asked.

“The key to his books.”

Ned’s eyes shot up and he held the key reverently.

“What books?” Ashara asked.

“Brandon Snow’s books. The man who changed the fate of The North forevermore.” Rickard replied gravely.

Ned tucked the key into his own pocket and nodded with a sombre expression. “I will guard it with my life.” He said and Rickard believed him. He had a dutiful son after all.

“I know you will.” Rickard replied. “The door is behind the tapestry of Brandon Snow. The keyhole is hard to find. It’s on the floor, not the wall, but the door is the wall. Make sure you tell no one of this but for your own son and heir. The Starks have guarded those books and the knowledge contained within for almost 300 years now. Do not be the first to breach our sacred oaths.”

“I won’t.” Ned swore and Rickard nodded, satisfied.

“Good.” Rickard replied. “Now there is one last thing I must tell the both of you.”

“What is it?” Ned asked.

“The Wolf Pack.” Rickard replied.

“As in Brandon’s Wolf Pack?” Ned asked.

“No.” Rickard replied. “The Wolf Pack of House Stark. You must know of it and how it works. It is paramount to The White Wolf. When he comes, the Wolf Pack must assemble. You need to know who is in the Wolf Pack, and their purpose. You must know how they fit in with the pack, and what their role is. You need to know everything about them, until you know The Wolf Pack better than you know your own family.”

“Tell me and I will listen.” Ned replied.

So Rickard told him of the Wolf Pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have one chapter to go I have decided so please make sure to leave your questions you think I haven't answered in this story yet. The next chapter should be up within the next few days, though no promises. The closer I get to the end, the harder it is to write. Once I have finished I plan to take a short break before starting the second arc which will cover the events of the books. Thank you all for your support!


	68. The Long Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We got some POV's from Rickard, Davos, Ned, Arthur, Benjen and Rhaella.

**The Long Summer**

**Rickard:**

Rickard Stark mounted his horse under the light of a full moon, the new steel sword hanging at his side an unusual weight. He had given _Ice_ to Ned, for _Ice_ was the sword of the Lord of Winterfell, and that was what Ned was now.

The dragonglass dagger that had killed Rhaegar still hung in his belt however, and it was a comforting weight for Rickard, the man who had lost everything. Rickard still wore his plain grey plate, though now he was wrapped in heavy furs and an oilskin cloak. It would be cold where he was planning to go.

Rickard gently tapped the sides of his ever faithful horse and it plodded forward, out of the stables of Winterfell, through the courtyard and through the ancient gates that Rickard had known since he was a boy. He descended down the slight slope, and into the Wintercity. At this time of night the city was asleep.

The inns and taverns had closed a few hours ago, and the city watch had moved the last drunken revellers out of the streets just after the moon hit its zenith. As such, the streets were empty and Rickard passed through the city unobserved.

The night was clear and the stars shone brightly in the sky, providing a light for Rickard to see the city of his birth, the city he had been raised in along with all other northern boys at the time. He passed a bakery and he smiled fondly as he remembered raiding it as a boy with his companions. Many of them were dead now, killed by Aerys after they had entered the city. Rickard was the sole survivor.

He reached the gates and his gaze fell upon a figure waiting in the shadows. Well not the only one.

“You were going to leave without me?” Ethan Glover asked, his eyes shining in the starlight.

Rickard sighed. “You’re not coming Ethan. Stay here. Find a girl. Make some babies. Be happy.”

Ethan’s gaze darkened and he shifted his feet. “I can’t.” He muttered. “Every time I close my eyes I’m back in those cells beneath the Red Keep.”

Rickard watched the young boy sadly. He had been forced to grow up too quickly. “I’m sorry.” Rickard said. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. I should have gotten you out sooner.”

Ethan Glover did not dispute Rickard’s statement, instead he shifted his gaze to the stars. “Brandon would have loved a night like this.” He said, and Rickard agreed.

“Aye.” Rickard said fondly as he swung down off his horse. “He would be riding along the kingsroad on his horse, or camped beneath the stars in the wolfswood or fighting wildlings in the shadow of The Wall. It gave him life.”

“He loved life.” Ethan said.

Rickard’s eyes crinkled as he remembered some of Brandon’s accomplishments when he was little. “Sometimes a little too much.”

Rickard saw the corner of Ethan’s mouth upturn. “He was a wild man.” He said.

“No.” Rickard said sadly. “He was a Wild Wolf.”

“Aye.” Ethan agreed as he pulled a flask from his pocket. “To Brandon.” He said as he took a long swig, a very long swig in Rickard’s opinion.

“To Brandon.” Rickard agreed as he snatched the flask from Ethan’s grasp and finished the flask off. It burned its way down his throat and settled in the bottom of his stomach, warming his cool bones.

The two stood together, staring at the stars, remembering the Wild Wolf, the man that was a wolf, and the wolf that was a man. Together they remembered Brandon Stark, a son, a brother, and a friend.

“Where are you going to go now?” Ethan asked and Rickard shrugged.

“I’ll go where the cold winds blow me.”

Ethan nodded. “I still want to come.”

Rickard shook his head. “I want you to live Ethan. Live for Brandon. Don’t let the demons within your head destroy your life. I don’t care how you do it. Find a way to get rid of them. If you’re rid of the demons when I get back I’ll take you with me when I leave again.”

“So you’re coming back?” Ethan asked.

“Of course.” Rickard confirmed, “I can’t leave Ned to raise Jon,” He scoffed. “He’ll end up acting like a Vale Lord.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Ethan asked with a wry grin. “Lord Royce was an impressive man.”

“Jon is not a Vale Lord.” Rickard replied. “Jon is a Stark of Winterfell. He is the blood of Brandon the Builder, of The Hungry Wolf, of Cregan Stark. He shares the same line as Bloody Brandon the Blessed.”

“And the grandson of The Burnt Lord.” Ethan said with a serious expression before continuing. “The Burnt Lord, the man who survived burning by wildfire, the man who broke the Targaryen host upon the Trident and the man who sacrificed Rhaegar Targaryen to the gods. The man who has done more for the North than any lord before him.”

Rickard felt tears spring to his eyes as he heard Ethan tell him what he done. “I did what any father would have done.” He murmured, “I avenged my son.”

“You avenged your son.” Ethan agreed, “And every other Northerner who was hurt by Aerys madness.”

Rickard sighed. “I did terrible things.”

“You did.” Ethan agreed, “But terrible times call for terrible measures.”

Rickard shook his head. “I went beyond just vengeance. The Tully’s for example. I was wrong, and I almost killed a girl because of it!”

Ethan sighed. “It seems you’ve got some demons too.”

Rickard felt a bubble of laughter rise up within his chest and he snorted in amusement. “Aren’t we a pretty pair?” He asked as he thought about everything that the two of them had been through in the last year. “A man broken on the outside, and a man broken on the inside, sitting beneath the stars reminiscing over better days.”

Ethan smirked. “The bards will be falling over each other in their rush to sing our song.”

Rickard laughed and remounted his horse. “I will be back Ethan. When I return you will come with me and together we’ll see the sights of the world. From Asshai to the Shield Islands, from the Summer Isles to the Lands beyond the Wall we’ll see it all.”

Ethan nodded and stepped back into the shadows. “I’ll hold you to your word.” He said as he raised a hand in farewell. “Farewell Lord Stark.”

“Farewell Ethan. Look after yourself for me. Watch over my grandson as well. Don’t let my son fill his head with too many tales.”

“I won’t.” Ethan replied and Rickard spurred his horse onwards, out of the gates of the Wintercity, and to whichever lands and whoever the cold winds blew him.

 

**Davos:**

Davos watched from the prow of the ship as Beron Saltstark guided their ship closer and closer to the little isle that was now his. In his arms was his Marya, a lady of the North now and behind him his children tussled, all the sons of lords.

Davos glanced back at Beron, who was guiding his own bastard son, Torrhen Snow, and Davos’ eldest, Dale _Seaworth,_ on how to steer a ship. His children were now the sons of a Lord. They had a future, a better future than even Davos had dared dream of when he was one of the best smugglers in the narrow sea. Actually he was the best, but a little humility never killed anyone.

The Isle came into focus as they got closer and Davos could see a small keep with a lighthouse attached set atop a cliff, while at the bottom of the cliff, rested a small town. The isle wasn’t large by any means, and Davos reckoned he could have walked around it within a day, but it was his, and it was now home. He felt his throat thicken as he watched his new holdings draw closer and his grip tightened on Marya.

She smiled up at him and Davos returned the smile fondly. “You’re a lady now.” He said.

Marya scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know how to be one of those.”

Davos shrugged. “I don’t know how to be a lord either. But here I am. I guess we will have to figure it out as we go.”

Marya nodded. “I guess.”

“Are you happy love?” Davos asked, worried that this wasn’t the life Marya wanted.

“Of course.” Marya replied. “Our sons have a future now.”

“Is this what you wanted though?”

Marya sighed. “I would have been happy in King’s Landing, as long as I had you and our children. It doesn’t matter where we are as long as you and the children are with me. Paupers or Lords what does it matter?”

Davos smiled at her fondly. “I love you.” He said as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I love you too.” She replied.

The two stood in silence as the boat pulled into the large piers that sat next to the town. For such a small town, they had quite an extensive harbour.

“What do you think?” A voice asked and Davos turned to see Beron walking down the deck towards them, Davos and Torrhen trailing in his wake.

Davos flicked his gaze back towards his new holdings. “It’s a large harbour.”

“It is.” Beron confirmed. “This is normally where the ships that want to enter the Wolf’s Maw stop to pick up a pilot. The pilots live in Light Harbour, the town that sits just there.”

“Really?” Davos asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes.” Beron said. “See those ships over there?” Beron asked as he pointed to a smaller side harbour that housed three large war ships and two smaller trading ships that could be converted.

“Yes.” Davos said. “What about them?”

“They all belong to you now. They are your personal property.” Beron replied and Davos’ jaw fell open.

“The three warships are used to stop anyone running off without pilots, they are some of the swiftest war ships in these waters. The smaller vessels are yours to do with as you please during times of peace. The old lord used to use them for trade with Braavos.”

Davos nodded and Beron guided them all of the ship and into the town proper. “That over there,” He said as he pointed to a large building, “Is the local Tavern. I would advise visiting there every once in a while. You can always pick up some interesting stories from the pilots and they will love you for it.”

“I will do that.” Davos said as he took a long look at the building, committing it to memory. He would go and visit it on the morrow he decided, for lunch perhaps.

Beron led them up the hill and through the gates of the keep, which he informed them was called Salt Isle Hall. They entered into the courtyard to find a crowd of people waiting for them. To Davos’ amazement all of them fell to their knees upon his entrance and bowed his head.

“Your household.” Beron informed him when he noticed the look upon his face. “The servants, guards, stewards and the keepers of the lighthouse. They are here to serve you.”

Davos didn’t stir, just stared in amazement at all the people that were under his care. Beron leaned in close. “It’s customary for you to tell them to rise.”

Davos noted with a start that they were all still on their knees. “Uh…rise.” Davos said, and he hopd they didn’t notice the stutter within his voice. Thankfully enough of them heard, and they rose to their feet and stood before him. Davos looked at Beron who shrugged. “That is one way of doing it, though not necessarily the traditional way. It worked though, so I guess that’s a good beginning.”

“Can you help me?” Davos whispered harshly. “What am I meant to do now?”

Beron rolled his eyes good naturedly and turned to the awaiting household. “Lord Seaworth thanks you all for coming out to greet him, and thanks you for your continued service. Please return to your duties and Lord Seaworth will address you all at dinner tonight. Could the Castellan, Captain of the Guards and Keeper of the Lighthouse please come and meet with Lord Seaworth now.”

Three people detached themselves from the rest of the household, while everyone else turned away and dispersed back into the castle, to resume their duties no doubt.

“Who are they?” Davos asked as the three drew closer.

“I’ll introduce them.” Beron replied as he smiled widely and extended a hand in greeting to the three men.

“Jon you old sea dog!” Beron exclaimed as he seized the hand of the oldest of the three, a grey haired, long bearded old man, who carried himself with a permanent stoop. “What have you been up too? Still keeping the lighthouse running?”

The man laughed and answered Beron’s questions while Davos inspected the other two men. One was a younger man who carried himself nervously, wringing his hands and avoiding the gaze of everyone else. The last man was clad in armour and carried a sword at his belt. For all his marital appearance though, his gaze was soft and a smile lingered in the corners of his mouth.

“Davos!” Beron called as he gestured him over. “Come and meet your household.”

Davos walked over and extended a hand in greeting. The three men took turns shaking it and Beron pulled the first man forward. “Davos this is Jon Adley, the chief keeper of the lighthouse.”

Davos nodded a greeting and shook his hand again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jon said as he pumped Davos’ hand enthusiastically. “I look forward to working with you.”

Davos nodded and turned to the next man that Beron pulled forth It was the young man who carried himself nervously. “Your Castellan, Brandon Norton.”

Brandon shook his hand and said little but Davos took a liking to the shy man.

“And finally, the captain of your guards, Hother Emsworth.”

Davos smiled at the kindly looking man, who shook his hand with a firm grip. Hother turned to Marya and lightly kissed her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you both.” He said as he smiled at them. “I am responsible for many things around her, none more so than your personal protection. If you have any needs do not hesitate to ask me.”

Davos nodded, still unsure about how to take all of this, when he noticed Beron smile cheerfully and turn to leave. “Well I have to go if I want to get home before nightfall so make sure to show him around alright Hother?”

Hother nodded and Beron turned to leave, but Davos snatched his arm. “You cant leave!” He exclaimed, “I still don’t know what to do!”

“You’ll figure it out.” Beron assured him before leaning in. “Trust me Davos, you will make a better lord than you think. Follow your instincts with the people and they will adore you. You already charmed your way through the Stormlands and Dorne, you’ll o fine with people sworn to serve and protect you.”

Davos flailed, unsure of how to respond, when Beron patted his arm consolingly. “Listen to Hother and Brandon.” He said. “They will now how things are done around here. Take their advice and you will do well.”

With that, Beron turned and walked away, calling for his bastard as he went, leaving Davos to figure out how to run his household alone.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked down at his wife.

Well no, not totally alone.

With renewed energy, Davos turned back to the captain of his guard and his steward. “So.” He said, “How am I meant to be the Lord of the Isle of Salt?”

 

**Eddard:**

Ned breathed in deeply and pushed open the door. He stepped inside the great hall of Winterfell and made his way up dais, and onto the ancient stone seat that sat in a central, commanding position. He was Lord of Winterfell now. His father had stepped down yesterday, handed him _Ice,_ and rode away in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye.

When he would back, Ned had no clue. Ned looked out over the assembled mass of people who had come to court and his mouth ran dry. What was he meant to say to all these people?

A flash of purple caught his eye on the side of the room, and he saw Ashara smiling at him, her purple eyes flashing brilliantly. Ned breathed in. He was Lord of Winterfell now and Warden of the North. This was his duty. Ned had always been good at fulfilling his duties.

He got to his feet, and hoped the crowd did not notice his shaking leg. “The war is over.” Ned declared. “and I hereby announce this court open to petitions.”

The crowd cheered and the first man stepped forward. Ned sat down, prepared to hear the man out. He was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He was the husband of Ashara and the father to Jon. He was the brother of Benjen and the son of Rickard. He was of the blood of the Kings of Winter and one day, The White Wolf would spring from his line. He could deal with a court.

“Come hither.” Ned called and court began.

 

**Arthur:**

Arthur slogged his way through the gently falling rains and into the misty mountains. Gods the North was cold. He missed the sun of his homeland, and the warmth of its dry deserts.  He missed his family; his brother, his father and his littlest sister. At least he was still with Ashara. They had always been the closest of all the Dayne siblings.

The North was a beautiful place, filled with snow swept plains, soaring mountains and expansive woods. Arthur could have liked it perhaps, but it was just too cold. A particularly bitter gust of wind swept through the valley he was riding in and sent his teeth to chattering.

“Are you cold?” Roderick Walton asked and Arthur stubbornly shook his head.

“N-n-n-o-o.”

“Your teeth are chattering.” Roderick replied and Arthur glared at him.

“No their not.” Arthur managed to hiss back.

Roderick shrugged and Arthur could not figure out how the man was so comfortable. He had forgone his armour for woollen clothes and a fur cloak, along with an oilskin cowl that kept the rain off his face.

“We are almost there anyway.” Roderick replied and he pointed to a glowing light in the distance.

“How long?” Arthur asked as he squinted at the light through the heavy fog and rain.

“Maybe another half an hour at this pace.”

Arthur nodded. That was good. He could put up with another half an hour of this miserable weather. The two rode in silence for the rest of the journey, until Arthur saw their destination. His mouth fell open in disbelief.

The mountain erupted out of the middle of the valley, and deep chasms surrounded its perimeter. Over one of these chasms stretched a narrow bridge that led to a small fortress that was nestled in between a tear in the mountains face.

The fortress was sturdily made and two towers had a commanding view of the bridge. It would have been impossible to sneak into this mountain without passing over the bridge, a feat that Arthur knew not many men would be brave enough to attempt. The walls of the gates and crenulations of the towers were lined with the now familiar sight of the Winter Wolves, those men who dedicated their lives to soldiering in the North.

Ned had told him there was 12,000 such men and the duties ranged from guarding Moat Cailin and the Wolf’s Maw to going beyond the wall to break up troublesome wildling bands. Martyn Cassel had been a Winter Wolf before he was the Captain of Lord Stark’s household guard and he had been a very good fighter. Not an excellent one, and not kingsguard quality, but then not many were.

“What is this place?” Arthur asked in awe.

“Welcome to Mount Starpoint.” Roderick replied as he spurred his elk onto the bridge. Arthur glanced over the side of the bridge and felt dizzy as he belhed the black chasm that stretched beneath him. He glanced back at Roderick, who continued on unperturbed.

“How sturdy is this bridge?” Arthur asked as he watched the where his horse went warily.

“It’s designed to collapse if there is too much weight on it.” Roderick replied and Arthur felt his heart begin to beat within his chest.

“How much weight?” He asked as he spurred his horse onwards, trying to get off this bridge as fast as possible.

“That much weight.” Roderick replied and he pointed upwards. Arthur followed the direction of his finger and noticed with awe a carefully balanced boulder perched upon a crag that jutted out of the mountains might face.

“It’s an emergency measure if Mount Starpoint ever comes under attack.”

Arthur swallowed. “Who would ever be mad enough to attack this god forsaken mountain?”

“Many men would.” Roderick replied darkly. “This mountain holds many secrets and treasures that men all over the world crave. I am charged with defending this mountain and I shall. I will not be the first to fail House Stark.”

“The first?” Arthur asked, confused. “Are you a lord?”

“A Lord Commander.” Roderick replied with a wry grin. “Born to a man of arms in service to House Bolton. At five I was chosen by the Green Men to serve here.”

“You didn’t get a choice?” Arthur asked.

“None of the Weirwood Warriors get a choice. We are all handpicked by the green men. It is an honour and a privilege to serve our gods in such a way. Many a young boy dreams of serving in our ranks. Very few young boys ever get too.”

“The Weirwood Warriors?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.” Roderick replied, exasperated. “The soldiers who fought Randyll Tarly at God’s Eye under Lord Eddard’s command?”

“That was you!” Arthur exclaimed.

“Yes.” Roderick sighed, rolling his eyes. “It took you a while to figure that one out.”

Arthur shrugged. “I thought that was some great secret.”

“It is.” Roderick replied.

Arthur frowned. “Well then why did you tell me?”

“You are not going to tell anyone.”

“How do you know?”

“Your family’s fate is tied with that of the North now. Betray the Stark’s and you will be betraying your own blood.”

Roderick’s words left a bitter taste in his mouth as he thought of his oaths as kingsguard.

“We are here.” Roderick announced as he stopped his elk directly in front of the gates.

“The gates are shut!” Roderick called out to someone on top of the wall.

“The mummers farce isn’t done!” Came the reply.

“The White Wolf hasn’t risen!” Roderick called back.

Silence greeted Roderick’s strange declaration, before the sound of moving chains  filled the air and the gates began to open.

Roderick tapped his elk and it made its way through the gates, and after another glance at the black chasm behind him Arthur followed Roderick in.

Almost immediately he was grasped by strong hands and a sack was thrown over his head. Arthur struggled, but the hands that held him were strong.

“I’m sorry Arthur.” He heard Roderick say, “But not even you are permitted to see what lies beyond these gates.”

“You couldn’t have given me a bit of warning?” Arthur scoffed as his hands were tied behind his back.

“No.” Roderick replied. “Then you would have made sure to look and remembered what you had seen. Now all you will remember is being dragged from your horse and bound.”

Arthur scoffed in anger, but allowed himself to be led away. He tried to keep track of his sense of direction, but he went up and down so many stairs and around so many corners that soon he had no sense of where he was.

He was taken like this for at least fifteen minutes, the only sound begin the scuffing of his feet upon the floor, and the low breathing of Roderick who held him firmly be his arm. Eventually they stopped and Arthur felt Roderick untie his hands, before pulling away his hood.

He blinked, his eyes unaccustomed to the strong light. As his vision cleared his heart stopped in his chest.

She stood before him, as beautiful as the day he had last seen her.

Arthur smiled wryly. “Hello Princess.”

That seemed to stir something within her, and her eyes blazed with fury. He saw her hand, and comprehended what it was about to do, but for some reason didn’t move. It hit him hard, and left his cheek stinging. He grunted in pain, before rubbing it.

Then her other hand came around and slapped him on the other cheek. “Ow.” He muttered as he glared at her. “What was that for?” He asked.

“What was that for?” She exclaimed and then she slapped him again.

“Alright stop.” Arthur demanded.

“No.” Elia replied and then she slapped him again.

Arthur stepped away from her, and glared at her. “Are you done yet?”

Elia’s mask cracked and he saw he wince, before she shook out her hands. “Damn that hurt.” She muttered.

“That’s what happens when you slap someone Princess.” Arthur replied. “That’s why it’s better to hit them with a closed fist.”

Elia glared at him before closing her fist and bringing it up in front of his face. “Like this?” She asked.

Arthur shook his head. “Put your thumb outside of your palm. That way you won’t break it.”

Elia nodded and readjusted her grip, before shooting her now properly closed fist forward and into his nose.

Tears sprung into his eyes and he heard something go crack. Something warm and coppery began to pour out of his nose and Arthur struggled to remain on his feet as the pain made him woozy.

“Was that better?” he heard Elia ask, and even though he couldn’t see her he could hear the smugness rolling off her.

Arthur stumbled backwards until he felt the wall beneath his hands. He sunk to his haunches and tilted his head back to stop the torrent of blood that poured from his nose. “It was great.” Arthur replied nasally.

“What are you here for Arthur?” Elia asked and Arthur sighed.

“I wanted to know if you were still alive.”

“Didn’t you believe Lord Stark?”

“No.”

“You should have. He’s yet to break one of his oaths.”

Ouch. That stung. Arthur scowled. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“Yes I do.” Elia replied angrily. “I am the princess you were sworn to protect. Where were you when Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane came to my chambers to kill me? Where were you when they came to riddle Rhaenys body with holes and crush Aegon’s head against a wall? Where were you?”

Arthur heard her voice hitch as she continued on.

“Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when I lay quivering in my chambers wondering if this would be the day that I would die? Where were you?

Elia was in tears now and rightfully angry.

“I wasn’t there.” Arthur replied softly.

“No you weren’t.” Elia replied coldly, the tears still streaming down her fair cheeks.

“Forgive me.” Arthur begged of her as he pushed away from the wall and fell to his knees before her. “Forgive me. I was wrong. I should have been there for you. Forgive me and I swear I will never leave your side again. I will be here to protect you from any who come to hurt you.”

Elia smiled sadly, and Arthur saw the anger fade from her eyes. “Oh Arthur,” she replied, “I don’t need anyone to protect me anymore. No one can hurt the dead.”

Arthur looked at her and saw the woman he had loved. “What about love?” Arthur asked, feeling bolder than he had in years. “Can someone love the dead?”

Elia looked deep into his eyes and shook her head. “No.” She declared, and then she turned away, leaving Arthur staring at her retreating figure.

Arthur nodded, but on the inside his heart was screaming at him to argue further. She was right though. How can you argue with the dead? How can you love the dead? How can you marry the dead?

He had lost everything in this war. He had lost his best friend. He had lost his king. He had lost his sister for a time, and now he had lost his love.

Arthur turned back to the door he had been shoved in through and saw Roderick Walton waiting for him. “How did it go?” Roderick asked.

“Take me back to Winterfell.” Arthur replied, his voice hoarse with grief. “Take me back to Ashara. Take me back to Jon.”

Roderick nodded and left, leaving Arthur alone with his broken heart.

 

**Benjen:**

Benjen rode at the head of the column as it made its way into the ruins of Hardhome, on Storrold’s point. Benjen looked around at the ruins. There wasn’t much to see.

What little buildings were left were overgrown with shrubs while the cliffs that loomed over the ruins screamed in unison with the wind, setting the teeth of every man present on edge.

Hardhome was a hard place.

But it was now Benjen Hardstark’s home, his holdings, his responsibility.

“Not much is it?”

Benjen turned to see Qhorin Halfhand approaching him. Qhorin was a brother of the Night’s Watch who had been given on ‘loan’ to Benjen from Lord Commander Qorgyle. He was a legend, and Benjen was still in awe of the man.

“It’ll do.” He replied.

Qhorin cracked a smile at the young lord. “That’s the spirit.” He said. “Keep that up and perhaps you’ll have a chance of succeeding here.”

“You don’t think I will?” Benjen asked.

Qhorin shook his head. “These wildlings aren’t about to bow down to you just because your father said so. They don’t know your father, they don’t know what he has done, who he is. They only respect strength. If you want them to bow down to you, you will need to show them you are strong enough for them to follow first. Then they will consider bowing.”

Benjen nodded thoughtfully. “I will take you advice on board.”

The two looked around at the ruins.

“What’s your first order Lord Hardstark?” One of the builders called out to him and he turned away to begin directing the building of Hardhome. He looked down at the little book in his hands.

“We need shelter for now!” Benjen called and he began to direct the men to start pitching the tents and organising the supplies.

Benjen nodded to himself as he watched the men work. He would forge this little peninsula into the shining jewel of the North, a city to rival White Harbour and the Winter City, a fortress to rival Moat Cailin and Mount Starpoint and a harbour to rival even the Maws.

He was Lord Benjen Hardstark, Lord Beyond the Wall. He would not fail his father, his brother or the White Wolf. He would go down in the history books as the man who brought the true North into the North.

Putting his little book into his pocket, he walked over to where his men worked and began to help them pitch the tents. Tomorrow they would begin work on rebuilding Hardhome, but today they would focus on surviving.

 

**Rhaella:**

Rhaella was dying. The ship wouldn’t reach the walls of Volantis in time. She would have to leave her children with Ser Willem Darry and Lucerys Velaryon. They would look after them. Her sweet Viserys and her beautiful Daenerys.

“Let me hold her…” She whispered and someone passed a crying bundle into her arms. Outside a terrible storm raged, throwing the ship to and fro upon the surface of the water.

“Stormborn.” Rhaella muttered. “Daenerys Stormborn. She was born in a storm you see.”

“I see.” She heard someone say. But they didn’t see. They didn’t see the storm her little stormborn would bring. By VIserys’ side together they would retake their kingdoms and throne with fire and blood.

“Fire and Blood.” She wheezed, and she heard someone murmer behind her. “Fire and Blood.”

“Where is my son?” She asked and then Viserys was there, fat tears rolling down his hollow cheeks.

“Don’t cry.” Rhaella whispered. “Be brave for me alright?”

Viserys nodded, but his bottom lip trembled. “Ser Willem will look after you and Lord Velaryon will protect you. You need to look after Danaerys though. Will you look after her for me?”

Viserys nodded and Rhaella smiled. “I love you Viserys. My brave little king. I’m sorry I have to leave you, but you will find support in Volantis. One day my son, you will retake our kingdoms. Promise me you will make Rickard Stark pay for what he did to Rhaegar. Promise me!”

“I promise.” Viserys managed to sputter out and Rhaella relaxed, content that those who had hurt her family so much would one day pay for what they had done.

Content, she closed her eyes and embraced death as an old friend, rather than a feared foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The end of the first arc of The Fall of Dragons. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think of the first part of this story overall. I really would like your feedback so I know what to improve in the second arc, which involves Jon. Thank you all for your support throughout this entire journey, and it has been that support that has kept me inspired to finish this.
> 
> I do plan to take a break now, but I've decided it won't be for long. If I can finish my plan, I should be back to updating within a week.
> 
> Once again, a massive thank you to everyone who has left a comment and kudo throughout this fanfiction. I've really appreciated the support.


	69. Author's Note: The Next Arc Is Up!!!!

Hello!

 

The Next arc is up under the name A Time of War.

 

Go and check it out and let me know what you think!

 

Thank you all for your support and hope to see you soon reading A Time of War!!!


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